


Hazy

by mockingjayne



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 33,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockingjayne/pseuds/mockingjayne
Summary: A collection of Waurel one shots.
Relationships: Laurel Castillo & Wes Gibbins, Laurel Castillo/Wes Gibbins
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

“Annalise?” Laurel calls out, stumbling into the house. She’d had way too much champagne that day, the effects leaving her airy and bubbly in all the right ways, except for the relationship department. Her fight with Wes kept swirling around in her head, the word vomit that preceded the inevitable actual vomit was something her hazy mind wouldn’t let her forget.

“Annalise?” She tries again, this time a little louder. Propping herself against the wall, her hair falls in a cascade around her face, as she takes a deep breath, the smell she inhales rolling her stomach, a scrunched face of disgust appearing.

“Laurel?” She hears from behind her, but it’s not the woman for whom she’d been calling for. “What are you doing here?”

The familiar cadence of his voice rings out over her, and she turns to find the object of her mind’s wallowing standing before her.

“Wes,” she says with a sigh of relief. She walks over to him, choosing to ignore the distance they’d predicated themselves with earlier, and instead burying her head in his chest.

His arms take purchase around her, a habit that had formed quickly in the previous weeks.

She finds herself breathing him in, sobering her wobbly legs, and eradicating the smell that won’t seem to leave, permeating the entire house.

“What’s going on?” He asks, his hand drawing soothing circles on her back, the anger from earlier having dissipated, leaving him with only concern.

She blanches, her back heaving, before flinging herself away from him, escaping through the doors to empty her stomach in the grass. Wes, hot on her heels, following her down the porch steps.

Reaching for her hair, he kneels with her, as she heaves the contents of her stomach into the yard.

“Well someone had a good afternoon, huh?” He teases, and she groans, her hands finding solace in the cool blades of green spreading in between her individual fingers.

“No more alcohol,” she reasons, as if he were the one that needed convincing.

“Good plan,” he laughs.

The gentle pressure of his hand on the small of her back offering a sense of comfort she found she was becoming more and more accustomed to.

She flops down onto the pathway, a slight pout on her lips, as she wipes the residue of her sick with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her sincerity washing over him.

A dimpled grin meets her worried gaze.

“It’s okay,” he reasons, not wanting to fight any longer.

“No,” she says, pawing at his chest. “No, I’m sorry. I just…I worry about you.”

“I know,” he nods, his brow furrowing with her admission. “It’s nice,” he shrugs. Elaborating upon her confused stare. “To have someone care that much. It’s just…new.”

She gives him a sad smile, and his hand reaches out to run his thumb along her cheekbone, and she finds herself leaning into him.

“We good?” He asks, and she nods into his hand, before placing a soft kiss on his wrist.

“Yeah,” she whispers out.

“Okay, then lets get you home,” he stands, grabbing her arms, and leveling her with him.

“But what about Annalise…?” She tries to argue, but he’s already moving them along, out of sight of the house.

“She’ll live,” he argues.

She looks back at the house, missing the slight hiccup in the sidewalk and nearly tripping, before his arms come out to stabilize her, linking his arm with her own.

“You okay?” He worriedly checks over her, and she can’t help the grin that escapes.

“What would I do without you?” She teases, burying her face in his steady arm.

“Hopefully, you don’t have to find out,” and although he’s teasing her right back, that goofy grin plastered on his face, she can’t help but agree with the statement with a slight nod into him.


	2. Chapter 2

"He has your nose."

Laurel leans over the couch, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder, while her stomach pushes in to the back of the furniture, her growing waist unable to hide under baggy sweaters any longer.

“How can you tell?” She says, squinting at the image.

“Look,” he says, bringing the sonogram closer to her, his finger tracing the grainy image. “That is clearly your nose,” he declares.

She turns to look at him, the nose in question, digging into his cheek, as she brings her forehead to rest against his temple.

“You’re cute,” she says with a scrunch of her nose, and she can feel his dimples appearing underneath her touch.

“I’m right,” he reasons, and she huffs out a laugh, as she moves to stand upright, walking into Bonnie’s kitchen. They’d left the house with the usual suspects crowding the living room, only to come back to a silent house, and nothing but the jigsaw puzzle of their sonogram pictures for Wes to assign claim to body parts.

Pouring a glass of water she wanders back into the living area to find him still studying the image.

“Stare at it too hard and it might disappear,” she warns with a grin, but instead it brings a frown to his face.

“Don’t say that,” he claims, his voice so forlorn, she instantly regrets the morbid comment, however unintentional.

Placing her water down, she sits next to him, pulling his hand into her own, and placing it firmly on the visible bump on display underneath the blue sweater she’d worn that day.

“We’re fine, we’re fine” she assures him, a litany of such she’d taken to uttering both to him and to herself, as if putting that thought out into the universe would form a protective bubble that kept them as such. The lingering doubts and fears of what could have been always lingering on the fringe of their thoughts most days, but brought to the surface with screaming accuracy when things seemed to be going too well.

A baby. A healthy baby, seemed to her a bit like tempting the fates. A nagging feeling that she wouldn’t be allowed to keep them both, that fate would ultimately offer one of them up for sacrifice for the other to survive.

As if sensing the tension of the room, the baby kicks, sending a full dimpled grin onto Wes’ face.

This time she can’t help but bring her hand to his cheek, running her fingers over the indents of happiness on display.

“Well, I just hope she has your dimples,” she claims, maneuvering herself to where her legs are now resting across his, the pressure coming off her feet, and her head sinking back to his shoulder.

“I didn’t see that,” he says, holding up the sonogram again, pretending to squint at the face. “But he definitely has your nose,” he jokes, tweaking her own nose with his finger.

“You know if we just found out the sex…” she broaches, not for the first time in the last few months.

“Nope,” he says with a pop. “It’s better this way, more fun,” like it was a game, the excitement settling over him.

“More fun?” She asks with a scoff. “We have enough surprises around here, for once I want to know exactly what we’re getting ourselves into.”

“But this is a good kind of surprise,” he says, the innocent wonder she’d witnessed upon first meeting, sneaking up on him the more she saw him interact with their unborn child. He tilts his head, his face melting upon seeing the trepidation written all over her features.

She lets out a heavy sigh.

“Let that be the only surprise,” she whispers against him, and he moves his hand to wrap around her, pulling her closer still, his fingers dancing across her arm in light patterns of comfort, her hair tangling in his movements.

It’s then that the door opens, the rush of the others entering the house, but they both refuse to separate.

Asher rushes over, plopping himself onto the couch, closer than she would’ve preferred, with the excitement of a five year old.

“Picture time!” He all but cheers, stealing the sonogram from Wes’ hand.

Wes shakes his head with a smirk, as Laurel looks back at him, carefully inspecting the baby nestled inside her.

“Hmm,” he says. “He’s got your nose, Mamacita,” he declares with a goofy look, and wiggling eyebrows.

She whips her head to Wes.

“You told him to say that!”

He holds up his free hand with a shocked, amused face, and a laugh.

She looks back at Asher with narrowed eyes, grabbing the sonogram from him.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, bringing the image to her chest. A soft groan and a roll of her eyes escaping her. 

“This does not mean you’re right,” she says with a point of her finger, and a shake of her head at the bemused grin on her boyfriend’s face.

“Sure,” he teases, the sound of his laughter enough to crack her resolve, hiding her smile in his arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Frustration rolled off of her in waves. She stared up at Wes, his hands dug into his pockets, worried lines etched into his forehead, as the news of the sleeping arrangements were revealed to him.

She wasn’t even with Frank and he was somehow weaseling his way into her apartment, managing to spend the night in the guest room, wreaking havoc on every aspect of her life.

Her brows furrow as she’s accused of betraying a relationship that had just started. The thought giving her a bite to her words, not wanting to snap at him, but her loyalty being questioned a sore spot she wasn’t ready for.

She’d made her choice, over and over again, the words she’d let slip last night not a lie. Perhaps ill timed and a slip of the tongue, blaming the alcohol for the declaration she’d known for quite some time, but buried along with all her other feelings, dredged up to the surface, slurred into reality like a habit.

“Goodnight, love you,” played out over and over in her mind. The truth smacking her in the face like it usually did.

Wes’ anxiety rising, she stands in assurance, the height difference causing her to look up at him, her eyes searching for the answer she was silently asking. Having just admitted her feelings, their validity now questioned, and the silence of his response last night before she’d hung up still ringing out over them as his fear leaked into the gap of where she’d placed them, and where he still stood.

He ducks his head, his dimples appearing, but this time not from a smile, but rather pursed lips, refusing to say what he’s really thinking.

“Did you tell him about us?” He asks, and she’s not sure what the right answer is in that moment. Technically, no, she hadn’t said a thing to him, but rather he had broken in, stood listening to her drunkenly admit she loved Wes. The extent to which he knew, she didn’t know, and quite frankly didn’t care.

Her head shakes before the words come out.

She closes her eyes, wishing she could just go back to when they were tangled in her bed sheets, shyly admitting to having wanted this from the beginning, the first day she’d tried to protect him. A trend she seemed to carry with her to the very second of right now. 

And while he’d admitted he thought she was out of his league, he had no idea that the quiet girl who’d spoken up, offering herself up to be reamed for the action, she’d seen those brown eyes stare at her in shock, in thanks, that someone had done something for him. Sitting back down, a soft blush, and a smile on her face, had sealed her fate right then and there.

Those same worried eyes stare down at her, wanting assurance that what had been said was true. That this was real, that it wouldn’t just all dissipate with the reappearance of an ex, that the quick hangup after a confession fueled by too much to drink and little filter had actually been true.

The glint of hope whirling around in his eyes was mirrored back in the sea of blue, glistening with unshed tears, as she buries her head in his chest on the front steps.

His chin comes to rest upon her head, and he releases his hands from his pockets, wrapping her up, pulling her closer. The warmth of him seeps through the jacket she adorns, the soft pressure of his fingers sinking into her back, an anchor of sorts keeping her locked to this spot, this moment.

She can feel the frustration melt away from him, as he places a soft kiss upon her head.

“I meant what I said,” she mumbles into him, half of her sentence lost in the fabric surrounding them.

“What?” He asks, his words sweeping over her hair.

She lifts her head slightly, titling her chin to where she’s staring up at him again, her hands finding their way, like a well traveled trail to his indented cheek, that waits with trepidation for her to repeat herself.

“I love you,” she repeats her words from last night, her eyes closing, dark eyelashes shielding her from possible rejection.

His mouth quirks to the side, concerned eyes scanning over her, as she brings her head back to his chest, burying her feelings along with her nose into his chest, the gesture worming its way into his heart, rightfully placing her where she belongs.

His hands glide from her back, coming to rest on the sides of her face, the pad of his thumb running over the curvature of her cheekbone, tangling in her lighter hair.

She can feel the inhale of air against her temple, his mouth coming to hover against her, before making its way to the shell of her ear. The effect of his proximity dizzying her, the drunken admission last night having nothing on the sober declaration hanging in the air.

“I love you too,” he utters, the words whispering across her ear, grounding them deep within her, an involuntary shiver breaking out along with the smile spreading across her mouth.

“Just you,” she murmurs into him, and there’s no mistaking the grin that appears against her.

And she knows that’s how it’s always been. The fight inside her on that first day to protect him, an instant connection that had never left her, only grown stronger, evolving into what stood before her. He felt it too. The sealed fate that had intertwined them, leaving them with the inevitable.

His hands come to rest on her hips, his thumbs drawing lazy circles on her stomach, as her’s wrap around his neck, their foreheads coming to rest against each other. Their eyes only seeing the ever after, their hands resting on their future.

“Just you,” he repeats.


	4. Chapter 4

Laurel moves closer to the mirror, inspecting her eyeliner, the black contrasting her blue eyes to something electric that seemed to captivate everyone around her. It was usually the first thing people noticed about her, and while it was flattering, she wanted to be remembered for her actions, not the way she looked. 

Still, perception was everything, and looking sloppy in court was not something she wanted to gamble with.

She could hear the laughter from the other room carrying through the walls, echoing in the bathroom. A melodic reminder of what she came home to every night.

Her heels clack against the hardwood floor, a soft smile adorning her face, as she makes her way into the living room. Her hands resting on the wall, peeking around the corner. The view meeting her, alighting her eyes to something not even eyeliner could highlight.

The first morning rays of light are streaming in through the windows, a dusty glow surrounding the two people paying her no attention from her spot.

Wes is seated on the couch, their daughter turned upside down, contagious giggles escaping her little dimpled grin. A matching smile hovering above her, his hands tickling the girl into a fit.

This was how most of their mornings began. A serene setting she thought would never actually happen. The chaos of her life just a few short years ago clouded her perception of a future.

It hadn’t been easy, and there were times when she was convinced that one or both of them wouldn’t be allowed to exist in the same universe as her. It all seemed so simple now. Like she closed her eyes and wished for this life, opening her eyes to find the life she never even knew she wanted until threatened to never be.

“What are you doing?” She asks, walking over to the duo, and her daughter expertly flips herself off of Wes’s lap, almost knocking him in the face, but his hands come out to block the action with a shake of his head.

“Mama!” She shouts, her curls bouncing with enthusiasm, her usually shy child only breaking out of her shell for her parents.

She collides into her mom’s legs, wrapping herself around them. Laurel’s fingers coming to tangle into her daughter’s hair.

“Hey Princesa, you’re not dressed,” she says, her pajamas still on in place of actual clothes.

“Daddy said I don’t have to,” She says, burying her face in the pants her little fingers are gripping onto.

“He did, did he?” She asks, throwing a look to Wes, who wears an adorably dimpled smile of innocence.

“She’s fully clothed,” he argues.

She rolls her eyes at his argument, before moving to pick up the little girl clinging to her. She settles her on her hip, the girls soft curls tucking underneath her chin.

“What are we going to do with him, Aurora?” She teasingly asks the girl, and she sees a dimple dot her cheek, beaming back at her.

“I’m going in late today,” he says, standing from the couch to approach them. His hand spreads out across his daughter’s back, rubbing slow circles. “We’ll be ready, right, Roo?” He almost whispers in the girl’s ear.

She nods against Laurel’s chest with a smile.

Laurel balances the girl with one hand, using the other to find its way to Wes’ hand, trailing the fine veins, before gently gripping his wrist, bringing his watch up to her. She frowns at the time.

“I’ve gotta get going,” she says with disappointment.

“Mama gonna win,” she hears a tiny whisper against her, and the surge of pride she feels providing the motivation she needs to leave.

“That’s right,” Laurel says with a bounce of the girl on her hip. “Besos for good luck,” she prompts, and Aurora rubs her nose against her mom’s with the most adorable scrunched face.

“My turn?” Wes asks with a laugh.

She sets Aurora down, and she stares up as her parents share a soft kiss, Laurel’s finger moving to affectionately wipe the lipstain off his lips.

“Bye, baby,” she says with a wave at the little girl, exiting her home.

The reality of her life hitting her in moments like this. Happy. Content. 

“Come on, Roo, let’s go get dressed,” she hears Wes through the door.

And she can’t help but pause, her fingers coming to rest against her lips, a satisfied smile appearing.

The idea of a good life alluding her for years, the dawn at the end of a long, dark night seemingly so far away, and perhaps an unrealistic dream. But on days like these, she acknowledges that Wes and her baby get her pretty damn close to just that, a happily ever after.


	5. Chapter 5

"I love you, Laurel Castillo," Wes said, his statement ragged as he let it out. His breath was shortening and Laurel knew he didn't have much time left.

She frantically looks around the room, searching for something, anything that can help, her eyes eventually landing back on the man before her.

His brown eyes stare up at her, and she wraps her hand around his own. The icy feel of his hand seeps into her own, causing her to shiver. 

“Wes?” She asks, panic tinging her voice, as he quits responding, and then, suddenly, she’s on the floor, the flames scratching at the space around her, threatening to engulf her.

She’s trapped, her eyes fluttering to the blurry image of Wes next to her, and her hand, soaked in blood, reaches out towards him, her throat feels like it’s enclosing, her voice hoarse to her ears as she mumbles his name over and over, as the flames dance their way around them.

“Wes, Wes, Wes…” 

“Laurel, Laurel.” She feels a heavy hand on her shoulder, startled, her eyes fly open, the soft lull of her name being repeated over and over, like a litany, begging her to wake up.

Her eyes hazily adjust, the pain the first to register, it hits her like a knife to the side, sharp and stabbing, traveling over her like fire, so hot it felt cold.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” she can hear, the blind panic settlings in as the pain roams free. She hears a moan escape, and it’s only as her eyes settle on the man above her that she realizes the noise came from her.

“W–” she starts, her throat stinging, like her voice had been ripped from her. The memories from before are quickly infiltrating their way into her, like they’d been floating above, and slammed back into her with consciousness.

“Wes,” she whimpers, the only word that will break free from her in that moment.

“You’re in the hospital, there was a fire at Annalise’s, remember?” He asks, moving closer, his hand coming to her hair, softly comforting her, her eyes pleading with him for more.

She moves her hand, her wrists sore, but her fingers grabbing for something, and he’s looking around for what she wants, his eyes concerned for her, she can tell. It’s only when her hand grips his shirt, her palm coming to rest over his heart, that the intent becomes clears, and a soft smile comes to his face.

“I’m okay,” he almost laughs, and she realizes how ridiculous that must seem, her laying in a hospital bed, asking how the man who looks perfectly healthy is, but the memory, she’s slowly realizing as a dream, seems so real, so life like.

She can feel the flames, the warmth of his eyes penetrating her from the floor next to her, but as the real collides with the nightmare, his body dissipates from the memory, her stumbling feet and voice calling out for her Annalise the only thing that remembers before she’s thrown across the room, and black overtakes the place of waking.

Her hand slowly makes it way back to her side, not wanting to leave its place on him, but not having the strength to keep it there. He sees her struggle and pulls up the chair, intertwining their fingers together, the smile, the look of relief never leaving his face, and she finds her lips forming a pout, eyebrows knit together as the fight from before comes screaming back to her.

“I’m–” she coughs, the smoke having done a job on her vocal chords. “Sorry,” she mouths, the sincerity behind the word carrying no less weight in its silence.

He shakes his head, leaning over the bed.

“No, I’m sorry. I was a jerk. And…,” he fumbles for words, as if the smoke had swallowed up his voice as well. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he nods, bringing her hand to his lips, and she finds herself alleviated from the pain just for a moment.

She leans into his affection, and a shooting pain soars across her, a sob bursting from her.

“Easy,” he warns, helping to adjust her back into the pillow.

The grimace on her face must concern him, because his smile falters, and his other hand comes to play with her fingers laced with his own.

“So I have something to tell you,” he broaches. Her eyes focus in on the worry lines of his face, the nervous lilt to his voice, the pads of his fingers dancing across her own, anything to take away the searing pain ripping through her.

She visibly swallows, moistening her throat.

“Yeah?” She asks, curious as to what he could have to tell her after what happened. Her immediate thought is that someone else died in that fire. The trajectory of their lives seemed to be forever destined to continuously entangle with death and destruction, the burn on her side suggesting as much.

The faces of her friends scatter across her eyelids as she blinks, the news surely bound to destroy her, karma finally having caught up to them, death stealing the breath of one of them.

She braces herself for the hit.

“Well, it uhh, turns out…umm, you remember that debate we were having about when the condom broke?”

“What?” She asks hoarsely, her mind refusing to do the work for her.

“You’re pregnant,” he spills out hesitantly.

She stills as the information washes over her, only the pressure of his hand, and the beeping of the machines registering over the blaring of the word pregnant.

Karma and death having chosen to not only spare her and Wes, but throwing in a twist of fate with a baby.


	6. Chapter 6

"Come back home to meet my parents for Christmas."

Laurel turns over in bed, her barely noticeable stomach not quite large enough to cause a hindrance of space between them, but enough that sleeping on her stomach was out of the question.

“That’s what you thought I was going to say to you?” She asks, disbelief coloring her sleepy face.

“Well, no,” he says, moving to his side to face her, his head held up by his hand. “But I expected you to go home. I don’t want you not to because of me,” he earnestly reasons, his hand reaching out to push the knot of hair that hangs in her face.

“I’m not going home,” she says, turning to roll over again, but his hand grabs her shoulder, stopping her.

“You…” he starts, unsure of how to broach the subject. “You haven’t even told them about the baby,” he says in a whisper, like the secret is something that could be found out if he said it loud enough in her apartment.

Her brow furrows, trying to figure out what he was asking, the frustration lining his face, but the motivation lingering behind a mask.

“What’s going on?” She asks, straightening herself, her eyes tinged with sleep, but concern quickly flooding the blue to create a pool of doubt.

“Nothing,” he tries to deny, but his dipped head, and tone of voice suggest otherwise. He peeks up at her through dark lashes, and she purses her lips to keep from smiling.

She moves her head forward, tipping it to his forehead, where she places a soft kiss.

“You can trust me,” she whispers against his skin, her words float over him, fluttering eyelashes leaving butterfly kisses on her cheek.

“Connor…” he starts, not wanting to get into it.

“Oh god, what did he say now?” She sighs, knowing that whatever it was wasn’t going to be nice, his smart mouth particularly quippy when it came to Wes.

“He just…,” he sighs, moving his head for his beard to scratch against her face. “Maybe I’m not the type of dad you want for your kid,” the despair written in every word he uttered.

Her brow furrows in anger, the venom dripping from her mouth.

“He said that?” She asks, yanking her head back, searching his eyes for confirmation.

“He’s not wrong, I mean, I’m not exactly a great catch. Hell, you are way out of my league,” he says self-deprecatingly.

She maneuvers herself even closer to him, situating herself to mold into the outline of his frame, the tiny little bump of her stomach pressed against his own stomach. Her hand coming to rest on his cheek.

“Look at me,” she says sternly. “If anything, you are out of my league. You are sweet, and kind, and smart,” at that he lets out a laugh, like he didn’t believe a word coming out of her mouth.

“Laurel,” he tries to stop her.

“No, you are. I don’t care what anyone else thinks, you are exactly the type of father I want for my…our kid,” she says with a smile. “Our opinion is the only one that matters,” she says with a flick of her mouth.

His thumb reaches out to trace the line of her eyebrow, hovering above her eyes, her eyelashes ticking his finger as they flutter shut.

“Then…” he begins. “Why don’t you want me to meet your family?”

She knows he can feel the breath she lets out in a deep sigh.

“Wes,” she groans, wanting him to understand. “They’re not good people, especially my dad. He will ruin this,” she admits sadly, long since giving up the idea that her father wouldn’t taint everything she had, wanting to keep her baby as far as possible from him.

The forlorn expression on her face must convey some sort of understanding to him.

“I just don’t want you to give up your family,” he pleads, his thumb making its way down her face, to trace her lips, leaving a tingling feeling before landing on her neck, settling in for keeps.

She stares at him, her eye flickering between his eyes and his lips, a quiet grin overtaking her face, slight dimples dotting her cheeks, reflected back in the deep ones adorning his face, studying her expression.

“You’re my family now,” she whispers.

The realization washes over him, that the life nestled between them had forever joined them into a family. The thing they’d both wished for growing up had snuck up on them both out of the dark, bonding them in collection of cells that were half him, half her.

He tilts his head to the side, as if contemplating the possibility, the appearance of an indented smile the acceptance she needed.

His lips finding the palm of the hand holding his head.

“I like the sound of that,” he grins into her.

“Hmm, me too,” she hums, settling her head into the pillow, her nose touching his, shared smiles.

The contentment of the moment with the three of them, shrouded in the possibility of the future.


	7. Chapter 7

Laurel looks up at the sky, the clouds moving quickly overhead, casting shadows of the sun trying to pry itself out, instead shielded by grey that seemed to soak into every facet of her life lately.

She trudges up the hill, having memorized the steps, each painful one reverberating up her leg, stabbing her heart with every visit.

The baby in her arms gurgles up at her, her eyes tightly closed, but her hand waving wildly out of her blanket. Her dark hair peeking out from under her little hat, and her face scrunched with dimples at the disturbance of movement.

“Are we going to see Daddy?” She whispers down at the baby, her voice soothing the small girl, her skin brand new, never kissed by the sun, and unlikely to do so today with the weather.

“Almost there,” she says, more to herself than her daughter. She spots the tree, the indicator of where the headstone lay, and she makes her way to the placer, her boots sinking into the grass, causing her steps to move heavy, ripping from her her strength, making her work for the journey.

She she stops in front of the stone, the engraved words stare up at her, as if etched onto her skin, each mark piercing her with a scar that bears the burden of what happened.

Kneeling down, she rests on her heels, precariously dangling between standing tall and sinking to the ground in a heap. Caught in between dealing and making it through, walking a fine line of drowning into the abyss.

Her hand reaches out, the baby resting in her left, and her fingers trace the letters, her index finger placing itself in the crease of the stone, the defined edges demanding not all of her could fit, separating her from the one whose name she felt.

Bowing her head, she sees her daughter’s eyes are open, only briefly, not focused on her mother, but instead the object of her mother’s tears, that drip down her face. When they began, she’s not sure, but they streak her face, cascading down onto her baby’s blanket.

She’d been making her way out here for quite some time, in various stages of her pregnancy, the hike up the hill having become more difficult in the later months, but she couldn’t stop. They had predestined meetings, times she couldn’t let go of, pieces of mind that lent her the bit of strength it took to get through the rest of the week.

This was the first time she’d brought the baby, terrified that it was unsafe, not wanting to jeopardize the infant, so innocent, so tiny, so fragile and unaccustomed to the life she’d been brought into.

Her hand comes out to the top of the headstone, using it to lift herself up, before circling around, presumably checking the flowers placed in the small vases on the sides, blue adorning the otherwise grey slate.

Her hand grasps the object, quickly moving to place it in her daughter’s blanket, fighting back the smile.

Laurel glances back, seeing if anyone is around, before rocking the baby, hunching over closely, carefully taking out the small piece of paper she’d grabbed. Her actions from afar, looking like she was settling the baby, up close she carefully unfolds the paper with her right hand, settling the note over the girl’s stomach.

This time she lets her smile shine, placing a gentle kiss on her baby’s forehead, before turning around, sinking to the ground, her back leaning up against the stone, extending her legs, letting them cross at the ankle.

For the first time in almost forever, she allows herself to feel the joy that had been knocking at her door nine months ago, doom threatening to steal her grin, and locking her emotions in a pendulum of waiting, wondering, with a level of facade only mastered from the professor that had taught her everything.

She couldn’t explain the logistics, the plan having long since been more about when he was coming back as to how he went away. But she knew that these meetings once shrouded in grief, had warped into something full of hope.

The paper words of someday, someday, maybe not standing well with her, the time passing by with the expansion of her waist, only to drop back to a flat zero of heartbreak after the birth. He’d missed it. The birth of their daughter. Her first breath, the first sight of a pair of dimples adorning her face, matching his own.

She sits there, humming a soft tune, before she hears a rumble of thunder approaching them. She moves her head, her hair sliding against the stone, getting stuck in the engraved areas, as she glances up with a scrunched face, brows furrowed.

Looking back down, she sees her daughter becoming restless, hunger winning out.

“Okay, say, ‘Bye, Daddy. We miss you.’” She murmurs into her, her words whispery soft against her.

Carefully, standing, she places a kiss to her hand, before waving goodbye into the wind.

A knowing smile ghosting her face as she makes her way down the hill, cradling her daughter closer.

The eyes of Wes trailing her down the hill, having decided to risk the chance of someone seeing him, hoodie pulled over him, the trees and brush hiding his location, for a just a glance, one look at his daughter up close. The picture he’d been given not doing justice to the beauty she carried at such a young age, no doubt from her mother.

A shy smile beams from him, as Laurel checks over her shoulder, the smile he hadn’t seen in some time emanating from her, the note buried in their daughter’s blanket, resting deeply in her heart.

_“It’s real. Soon.”_


	8. Chapter 8

Michaela and Asher sit across the coffee table from Laurel, heads buried in various books, notes scattered around the table, their pens moving furiously, trying to scribble down whatever study habit they have going on right now.

Laurel stares at them, her brow furrowed, and her pencil still in her hand, as she leans back against her couch, abandoning her writing utensil, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands.

Her arms cross, shielding her from the obscene amount of work sitting before her. The last month of events having slowed her down a bit, given her pause, her burn still recovering, but finally free to breathe, and not as painful as before. In fact, she welcomes the pain sometimes, letting her know that she was still breathing, the pulse of the burn radiating underneath her skin.

“We don’t have time for breaks,” Michaela warns, tapping Laurel’s book, encouraging her to focus on the task at hand.

“Sorry,” Laurel apologizes.

“Where is your head today?” She asks, but never lets her eyes leave the notes in front of her, and Laurel would swear she can see the stress rising for the woman who had become a friend to her in a time when she could use one.

“I umm,” she says, her face scrunching in a bit of embarrassment. “I was just thinking about what to get Wes for Christmas,” she says, casually, pushing herself back to her book, hiding the slight blush rising on her cheeks.

“Well we already know what he got you this year,” Asher chimes in with pervy grin, and a gesture to her still flat stomach.

Both women shake their heads at his joke

“Gross,” Laurel responds, throwing her pencil at his chest.

“You wound me,” he dramatizes like she’d stabbed him in the heart, and they both laugh.

“Look,” Michaela says, catching both of their attention, stopping the laughter. “I’m sure whatever you get the puppy will be fine,” she says frustratingly, her anxiety over the upcoming exams streaking her voice. “Now can we get back to studying?” She reprimands, and the other two straighten up, fighting back their grins at being scolded like school children.

“Yes, ma’am,” Asher mocks, and Laurel buries her head in her book to keep from laughing.

Michaela’s words run through her head the rest of the evening, until Wes joins their group, a floppy smile painted on his face as he stares at her.

Successfully making up her mind about the gift.

xxx

Christmas morning, Laurel awakes to the dinging of her phone, blearily looking at the messages, she tiptoes out of bed, pulling one of Wes’ t-shirts on, her bare legs peeking out from underneath her, as the cold hardwood floor sends goosebumps up her whole body.

She wraps her arms around herself, as she moves to the front door, a smiling Asher greeting her.

“Here you go,” he says, passing the small bundle into her arms, a squirmy little thing that immediately moves to lick her face.

“Thanks for keeping her last night,” she says, moving her face out of reach of the happy puppy.

“Yeah, sure. A puppy for the puppy. Cute,” he teases, before lowering his head, talking nonsense to the dog, as a look of amused disbelief crosses Laurel’s face at his goodbye.

As she moves to close the door, she looks down at the dog to a piercing set of ice blue eyes staring back at her. She’s a freckled mess, mostly brown, highlighting her eyes, but a white muzzle, dotted with a brown nose, and a tail that never stopped wagging.

“Come on,” she says, despite holding her, as she tries to sneak back into the bedroom only to find a worried pair of brown eyes meeting her this time.

He’s sitting up, his hand resting in the space where she should’ve been.

A happy little bark escapes from the puppy, which has Wes’ head tilting to the side with a wide grin.

“What’s this?” He asks, excitement heavy in his voice.

“Well,” she says, sauntering up to his side of the bed. “I was hoping you’d be asleep so I could surprise you,” she says, standing in front of him, the puppy right at his eye level, leaving ample opportunity for her floppy ears to bounce as she squirms to lay a kiss right on his nose.

His face scrunches up in amusement.

“Merry Christmas,” Laurel whispers, leaning down to place a kiss on his temple, placing the puppy on his lap.

“I don’t..,” he starts, distracted by the wiggling mess trying to get her bearings on the mattress and heap of blankets, causing him to laugh mid-sentence.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders. “And as Asher so disgustingly pointed out to me, you already gave me something this year,” she says, leaning back on the bed, patting her flat stomach.

“The gift that keeps on giving, huh?” He jokes with a raised eyebrow, and her face cringes.

“You’re just as bad as him,” she says with a shake of her head, moving to keep the puppy from falling off the bed.

“But seriously,” he says. “Thank you,” his face wandering dangerously close to her own, his eyes flickering between her eyes and her lips, a look of pure adoration,

“You’re welcome,” she breathes before his lips descend upon her, and her eyes flutter shut, only to fly open with a laugh at the bark of their puppy dancing between their legs, demanding attention.

“And here I thought this would be our first and last Christmas together without a baby,” he laughs, scooping up the dog into his arm, cradling her between the two of them.

Her eyes watching Wes interact with the puppy, the only thought floating across her mind…

_what a great dad he will be._


	9. Chapter 9

Laurel’s phone incessantly vibrated in her back pocket, the buzzing sensation leaving her fumbling to answer the call, only to find Wes’ name lighting up her screen, the picture one that she’d inadvertently snapped of him while studying.

A drunken smile makes its way to her face, before the annoyed feeling from before washes over her, and she ignores the call, shoving the phone back into her pocket. It’s only seconds later before it starts buzzing again, this time she doesn’t even bother reaching for the device, instead letting it go.

She wanders through the dorm rooms, rowdy undergrads meandering around her, bumping into her small frame, until she eventually finds Asher in his room.

“I think I’m gonna go,” she calls out at him over the music, her mood having soured since seeing the name on her phone and being reminded of the fight from earlier that afternoon.

“I can’t feel my feet!” He yells back at her, almost as if he hadn’t understood her original statement.

A confused look contorts her face, before she hesitantly nods with pursed lips, Asher crashing backwards onto the bed.

She pulls on her coat, the frigid night air sure to rattle her bones, as she slowly makes her way back to her apartment. Only stumbling a few times, the walk sobering her up, simultaneously removing the fog she’d been trapped in, no shield to hide the painful truths that had been thrown both at and from her. She visibly winces at the insults, as she pulls her coat a little tighter around herself.

Her head hangs low, her curled hair dangling in her face as she walk the straight line to her apartment. Only looking up when she sees a seated figure perched outside her door.

Peeking up from her veil of hair, she finds Wes.

“What are you doing here?” She barks out exhaustingly.

“You ignored my call,” he states, not leaving his place on the floor.

“You ignored mine,” she spits back, removing her keys, and climbing over his legs, trying to get inside.

“Figured you ignored Annalise’s too,” he argues, and she squints at him, her door just open a crack. She reaches for her phone to find that that second call had been from her.

“Damn it,” she says, debating whether to listen to her voicemail.

He vacates his seat, now standing tall in front of her, his soft brown eyes pleading with her to listen to him.

“You have five minutes,” she says, turning to walk in, and he silently follows. 

She places her things on the table, spinning around expecting to find him standing in the entryway, but she’s met with a closed door, having bypassed her into the living room, and taken up residence on the couch.

“Sure, come in, make yourself at home,” she says sarcastically, and then cringes at her acerbic tone. She really wasn’t that angry at him.

But he remains silent, his face buried in his hands, as she makes her way into the living room, standing in front of him, their knees almost touching.

The silence captures them in its grasp, her thoughts screaming at her to say something, anything. But his still form gives her pause, and the panic begins to set in. The finality of this moment, the decisions made tonight seeming to seal their fate.

She reaches out, her hand coming to rest on his hand, a comforting gesture, if not a desperate one to not only grab ahold of the one thing she wanted, but offering the olive branch, peace her only resolve.

His hands collapse to his lap, and his head peers up at her, his eyes searching her face for an answer to a question he was too scared to ask.

She raises her eyebrows at him, waiting for him.

“Do you love me?” He blurts out in a whisper, the soft feathery question weighted with all the insecurities of the day.

Hesitation rings through her, the reference to the phone call from before, having been ignored up until this moment, the murky moment of weakness presented to her with clarity, her answer sure to be etched in finite stone.

The pause leaves him with a heavy sigh, and he moves to stand, heading for the door he’d just walked through, the five minutes having been eaten up in the silence of her answer.

“Wes,” she calls out to him, her arms coming to wrap around her plaid shirt, the cold having been left outside, but the warmth of this moment bordering on bubbling over, pouring her heart into the fire.

She crosses the room, her hands holding her in place, shrouding her within herself.

“Where are you going?”

He lets a sardonic laugh.

“Annalise wants us at the house,” he says, defeat written all over him.

Her doing.

They stand caught between futures, the one that has them walking out of that door, sealing their fate, and the one that demands an answer, a confession that if denied will live with regret.

Her hands loosen their grip, leaving her shirt to hang, lowering the shield and allowing the truth.

“Yeah,” she utters, her lips quivering at their admission.

He takes it the wrong way, moving to leave.

“No, no, wait,” she says, this time grabbing his hand, swerving him around to hover above her.

“What do you want from me?” He asks, having been convinced of her motives this afternoon, now questioning everything.

“…You,” she says with a shrug, and a shy smile.

He glances down at their hands, finger intertwined, inexplicably so, threatening to entangle them for longer than just this moment.

“You’re not a charity case,” she says with a step closer. “You’re not someone I want to fix,” she says with a twitch of her brows. “I like you the way you are. I love you,” she says with a tilt of her head, staring up at him.

His eyes flicker between her eyes and her lips, a slow dimpled smile making its way to her, as she watches her admission wash over him, soaking into his skin, refusing to let go of the feeling, copying itself into his DNA.

“I love you, too,” he responds, as if not wanting her to be denied the same feeling.

He leans down, equaling their height a little, his nose rubbing against her own, and her eyelids flutter closed.

“I thought we had to go to Annalise’s,” she tries, teasing him and his urgency to flee just minutes before.

“She’ll still be there tomorrow,” he assures her, as his free hand moves bring her closer, snaking underneath the plaid, his lips capturing her’s, until it feels like the heat is lapping at her, the flames flickering, burning her upon their touch, but happy to let the truth engulf her in its explosion.

The things left unsaid now out in the open with nothing but the future ahead.


	10. Chapter 10

The chair drags against the hardwood floor, as Laurel scoots it along, maneuvering it down the hall and through the doorframe, situating it in front of her closet.

Her baby girl hot on her heels, her little shadow of sorts.

“What are you doing, Mama?” She asks, making her way over to the bed, lifting herself up on to it, and then promptly standing in the middle.

Laurel climbs up onto the chair to reach the highest shelf of the closet, rethinking her idea of socks, as the slippery wood beneath her warns her of the potential outcome of this scenario.

She glances back, seeing Aurora slightly jumping on the mattress.

“Careful, my love,” she says, which only spurs the girl to jump higher, taking the warning as permission.

Turning back to the task at hand, she gets on her tip toes, moving around sweaters, and various things collected over the years, all stuffed into one area, outreaching the capability of her height.

Balancing her weight on the shelf, she dares herself to the edge of the chair, leaning far over to see the contents long since shoved to the back, causing her to slip, her grip turning white on the shelf with a noise of panic.

“Mama, careful,” Aurora repeats back her words to her, and she can hear the rustling of the blankets underneath the tiny feet hopping around, the cartwheels bound to start any second.

She shakes her head, her hair darker, longer than it was when she’d pushed the contents to the back of her mind, as well as the back of the closet to shed the old and focus on the here and now.

She hadn’t even realized that today was the day. It had started like any other weekend, a race between her daughter and the sun to see which one could wake her first.

This particular morning, the sun had won, the gentle rise shedding her of her sleep, and leaving with her a hollow feeling, as she glanced to her side, her hand extended to open space, as if gripping the light, the heat of the sheet alerting her to a time frame, a confused looking overtaking her, furrowed brows, and pouted lips.

She grabs her phone, checking her texts with a smile, quickly typing a response, as she pulls on a big pair of fluffy socks underneath her plaid shirt, making her way to the kitchen. 

A thudding noise hitting the wall can be heard before she turns the corner to see Aurora sitting on the stool, her feet kicking back and forth, fingers splaying a mess of fruit loops, the entire box littering the counter.

“I see someone started breakfast without me,” she teases, coming up behind the girl, placing both hands on her shoulders before placing a kiss on her curly head.

“I’m waiting for donuts,” she whispers, as she places the loops on her fingers, shaking them around, and then plucking them off with her mouth one by one, with a mischievous grin.

“Is that so?” She asks. “Well what if Mama wanted fruit loops?” Dramatically putting her hands on her hips, causing the shy girl to giggle, before offering out her small hand, her fingers covered in the sugary cereal.

Laurel makes a scene, pretending to eat her little fingers, as she takes one off with her lips, popping into her mouth, earning a loud laugh from the girl.

“My sweet girl,” she says, giving her another kiss, before moving to the fridge, as Aurora goes back to eating.

Pulling out the orange juice, the number displayed on the calendar, today’s date, catches her eye. Her hand reaches out on its own accord, tracing over the number, its dark ink smooth under her finger, unlike the stone she’d used to trace the same date, over and over again. The cold contrasting with the sun she’d been holding on tightly just moments before.

She turns and sets the juice down on the counter in a daze, grabbing a nearby chair, and dragging it into her room.

“Where is it?” She whispers to herself, frustration grating on her nerves, as the number echoes in her mind, over and over again. The tingling of the once flames that had danced over her, appearing as if by recall, years later, eating her up, demanding a sacrifice.

Pausing, she closes her eyes, a myriad of flashes flitting across her vision, so vivid in their detail, the hollow feeling inhabiting her, wandering alone, the cry of a baby only muffled by the sobs coming from her, her hand reaching out and finding only that of her friend, the one she’d wanted not there.

The tears slipping down her face before she knows it, the thump of Aurora jumping down from the bed, shaking her from her reverie.

“My donuts,” she says in a tiny excited voice, as she slips out of the door, leaving Laurel to stand, sunken, and dejected on the chair.

“You better hurry up and get one of those donuts or Roo’s going to eat them all,” he teases, his smile immediately dropping into a frown when he sees her in tears.

Her blue eyes trickling in front of him, his hands reaching out to grab her hips, as he stares up at her from her perch.

Her arms immediately come to wrap around his neck, pulling him impossibly close from her position, gripping his shirt in the same tight grasp she’d had on the sheets of his side of the bed this morning.

“I’m right here,” he whispers against her, and she nods into him.

“Why is Mama crying?” She hears, and it causes Wes to momentarily vacate from her hold on him.

“She just missed me,” he says, leaning down to get eye level with her, before picking her up, a contemplative look on the little girl’s face, as they make their way back to her.

“Don’t be sad, Mama. Daddy’s here now,” she says, her little dimples peeking out in her concern, causing Wes’ to appear, a proud smile displayed, unaware of the meaning of her words outside of a simple errand.

Laurel can’t hold back the tiny grin at her little girl, the past having never kissed her with its grief, instead the universe having reset their future while she was still a baby, giving her back the man standing before her, holding their daughter.

“There’s the smile,” Wes says, using his free hand to trace over her lips with the pad of his thumb, tickling her into a full blown smile.

“Did I hear something about donuts?” Laurel teases, and Wes making an over-exaggerated surprised face to the little girl, her hands flying into the air in celebration.

He sets her down, and she flies into the kitchen to collect the food she’d abandoned in favor of her parents.

“What were you looking for?” He asks, seeing the mess she’d made in their closet, grinning at her fluffy socks, balancing on the chair.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, lowering herself to the ground, his hand hovering over her waist as she does so.

“You sure?” He asks, and she peers up at him, her fingers hooking onto his belt loops, pulling him forward with a laugh.

“Yeah,” she whispers, his hands coming to cradle her face, choosing to discard the past of secret notes and waiting for him to make his way back to her, instead soaking up the warmth of the present. “I’ve got the real thing.”


	11. Chapter 11

Asher wildly gestures back and forth, almost humping the air around the small table in Bonnie’s living room. Michaela rolling her eyes, placing her head in her hands at him.

“Oh God, gross,” Laurel directs towards him, as the others laugh at his celebration over getting an answer correct.

“What? You can’t handle this?” He makes reference to his movement, coming up right beside her, before she pushes him out of the way.

“Sit down,” she demands, moving to stretch her legs out, Wes’ hand landing on her thigh under the table, which stills her movements. Their relationship still something of a secret to the others, making sure their affection subtle, hidden away from prying eyes.

Laurel gives a small smile towards him, her elbow coming to rest on the table, her gaze obstructed by a veil of hair shielding her from the others.

A knowing grin crosses her face towards her before he pretends to bury his head back into his book.

Asher plops onto the couch, a big bag of cheetos sitting next to him, and he dives into them, crunching obnoxiously as Connor prepares to prep the next question.

“Do you have to do that?” Laurel snaps at Asher, her nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Do what?” He asks, cheeto midway to his mouth, a confused face contorting at her outburst.

But she doesn’t have time to answer the question before she’s clambering to her feet, making her way to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before she’s retching up the contents of her empty stomach.

The others glance around at each other, before Wes gets up, a concerned look painted on his face, his need to make sure she’s okay outweighing the possibility that someone could suspect something.

“Hey,” he says, entering the bathroom to find her hugging the toilet, her hair hanging in her face that has since gone ghostly white, matching the bowl she was clinging to so desperately.

Kneeling down next to her, he gathers her hair away from her face, pulling it back to rest against the back of her sweater, where his hand finds its place, soft circles being spread over her, soothing het upset stomach, until she backs away.

He shuts the door, as she crawls over to where the bathtub is, pulling her knees up to her chest, her fingers tangling in knots, as he leans up against the opposite wall.

She uses the back of her hand to wipe at her mouth, the taste of her sick lingering on her tongue, threatening to have her spill over into the toilet again.

Her brow furrows, but her eyes refuse to meet Wes’.

They sit in silence, letting the chatter of their friends echo into the bathroom, the speculation narrowing the suspicions for her, the mantra of denial no longer able to nestle its way in the back of her mind, instead vomiting to the forefront with a force she could no longer hide.

The fingernail of her thumb eventually makes its way to her mouth, a nervous habit she’d found herself taking up more and more as the days trudged along.

“Laurel,” he starts, and her sad blue eyes come to meet his, panic written all over her.

“I’m never late,” she responds, her hand gesturing to the air, as if asking for a different answer to the question that had been nagging her for a week.

He remains quiet, realization seemingly sinking further into him, his hands knit together in his lap, his eyes pleading for more.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he offers trying to calm her, but the response has her legs collapsing to the floor in exasperation.

“The evidence is kind of stacking up against me,” she says with a nod of her head towards what just happened.

Her head flings back, hitting the shower curtain, as a quiet “Fuck,” comes from her.

It’s then that Wes gets up from his spot, moving the small distance to sit next to her. His hands coming to the edge of the tub to dip himself down until his legs are extended next to her own, far surpassing their length.

His hand reaches out, taking hers in his own, intertwining them together, before placing them in his lap.

She stares down at their hands, her dark brows knit together in no less worry from before, but she looks up at him, her lip jutting out in almost a pout, before her free hand comes to covers her eyes with a sob.

He immediately frees her hand and pulls her into his embrace, resting her head against his shoulder, tucking her in so his head is resting atop of her’s. His lips whisper softly over into her.

“It’s okay,” repeated like a litany into her over and over again, convinced if said enough that the words would become true.

The sniffle she makes is muffled by the sleeve of her own sweater wound in her fist, pushing up against her face, tears marking staining her cheeks and wetting his shirt.

It’s only when her tears turn to laughter that he pulls back from her, a confused look at her sudden change in emotions.

“What?” He asks with a hesitant smile, not sure if she’s lost it.

“Nothing,” she says shaking her head, tucking her hair behind her ears, wiping at the tears on her face. “I was just thinking about how we were joking about this, in the tub, remember? And now,” she says, lifting her hands up. “It’s true,” she says, continuing to laugh hysterically through her tears. “I mean of all the shit that’s happened to us the last couple years, this…this is by far the craziest.”

He cocks his head to the side with a smile, staring at her.

“Really? _The craziest_?” He challenges with a raised eyebrow.

She lowers her head, giving him a look that suggests she’s serious, before her face softens, and then comes to rest against his shoulder again.

“Okay, maybe not the _craziest_ ,” she says, her breathing settling into something more normal.

“In comparison, we got this, no big deal,” he teases, his hand tracing patterns on her shoulder.

She lifts her head, her chin coming to rest against him, but her eyes staring up at him.

“So you’d…you’d be willing to…I mean…you…” She struggles for the right words, unsure of exactly what he’s saying, neither of them having even dared to breathe the word baby or pregnant in that tiny bathroom they sat huddled in.

“Well, you should probably take a test first, you know, make sure,” he suggests, and she finds herself nodding against him.

“Right, right,” she agrees.

They hear a knock at the door, startling them both from the gaze they’d transfixed upon each other, entangled in their thoughts.

“You guys okay in there?” Michaela asks.

“Yeah, we”ll be right out,” Wes assures her.

 _“They think they’re so sneaky,”_ they hear her mutter to herself as she walks away.

Wes holds back a laugh before turning back to Laurel.

Slowly standing up, she straightens herself, adjusting her sweater, and moving towards the sink to wash out her mouth.

“Laurel,” he says before she can turn on the water. “What you were asking before whether I wanted…”

She leans against the sink, her fingers digging into the porcelain, her face red from crying, and anxious as to what his answer would be.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, a dimpled smile and soft brown eyes assuring her that everything he’d said before had been real, she wasn’t going to be alone no matter the outcome.


	12. Chapter 12

Laurel sits against the cool porcelain, bubbles floating against her body, their airy weight surrounding her world of problems.

Wes stands behind her, a towel wrapped around his waist, and she can feel his eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“I can actually hear you thinking,” he teases her, and she makes a twisty jerk of her head, her eyes growing wide in a goofy facial expression, her mouth quirked, lips pursed.

“For your information, I wasn’t thinking about anything, mister,” she says, lifting her hand up, covered in bubbles, as she blows them away like a child playing in the tub.

Her hand remains positioned, palm up, as she glances up at him, the water having wet her hair to an even darker color than usual, making her blue eyes even more noticeable. Playing off her concern with a playful gesture.

He kneels down, his knees making a noise as they hit the outside of the tub, his beard tracing down her cheek as it makes it way to its resting place, his chin coming to rest on her wet shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats from earlier, and she lets out a sigh of frustration.

“I told you, it wasn’t your fault,” she says, rearranging the now dissolving bubbles, the water turning from tepid to something colder.

“Still, I know this is the last thing you need to be worrying about,” he says in a defeated voice.

Her wet, bubbly hand comes to pat him on the cheek with a grin.

“Wes, really, I’m fine,” she says with a laugh. “I’m not…I’m good, you’ll see,” she assures him. Scooting away from him, before standing up, a drips of water trailing down her body, and he stares up at her, having long since memorized every freckle and curve of her, but still in awe all the same.

“I have to say, I kinda like your genes,” he says with a dimpled grin.

She gives a dramatic look towards him, her eyes almost daring to look green in the light, a slight roll to them at him refuting her earlier claim.

“I’m sure you do, now hand me a towel,” she points at the one sitting on the vanity.

He gets up from his position, his hands gripping the tub to keep his balance, but when he turns, she reaches for the towel, only for him to yank it back.

“Really?” She asks, her hands coming to rest on his naked hips.

He spreads the towel out, holding it across his chest, waiting for her to get out and wrap herself in it.

His plan foiling quickly when she goes to get out and nearly slips with nothing to balance on, his hand shooting out to steady her, as she climbs out. Her arms wrapping around herself in the cold, and he moves quickly to wrap her in the fluffy white towel.

His hands make quick work of wrapping her snugly, and moving his hands over her arms. All the while she stares up at him, watching his concentration at taking care of her, and her hand peeks out to bite her thumbnail.

“What?” He asks, noticing her staring.

“Nothing,” she says, her nose scrunching up, her brow line dipping into her eyes, and he laughs.

She takes a step towards him, her cheek coming to rest on his bare chest, taking a deep breath in, the smell of strawberries from the scented bubbles lingering on his skin and invading her nose.

They stand like that in the middle of the bathroom, the bubbles of their conversation slowly dissipating, the worry carried with them.

She moves her head, his chin coming to rest on his chest as she stares up at him, her view mostly his beard, her hand gripping both sides of the towel tightly, as the other one makes it way free to trail her finger along his jawline.

“You’ve got pretty good genes too,” she teases back, her fingernail trailing a smile across his face in its wake.

“Nothing to worry about then?” He offers, his lips coming to touch her wet hair.

She dips her head, her lips making contact with his chest.

“Nothing to worry about,” she whispers into him, her words trickling below to the beating heart she can feel against her, a steady beat of promises.


	13. Chapter 13

Laurel hurriedly grabs her bag by the door, turning around, checking to make sure she’d grabbed everything. Convinced she had everything she needed, she moves to flick her hair caught underneath her scarf, rushing to get out the door, not wanting to be late for the new semester.

Winter break had left her angry, and lonely, spending more days than not laying on her couch, staring off into space. Letting the emptiness engulf her, the sadness of her situation wash over her. The knowledge that her dad was responsible for taking Wes away from her heavily weighing on her mind, consuming all her thoughts, the ones she allowed to escape from their barrier into consciousness.

She often woke from nightmares screaming, calling out Wes’ name over and over again. Tears of betrayal leaking from her eyes, and that’s when she’d gather her keys, and trudge her way to Michaela’s.

Bleary eyed, drowning in Wes’ old plaid shirt, she’d show up outside their door, seeking refuge, just one peaceful night of sleep that never came. Huddled on their sofa, the television played its images, casting their glow upon her eyes but never really sinking in, rather ghosting across her irises, their voices serving as static noise, blocking her own mind’s voices that never seemed to shut up.

Last night had been particularly bad, the words “I’m pregnant” spoken to a head of stone played out over and over in her mind. The idea of being a law student and a mother a recent decision, one that had only been shared with Wes a few weeks ago, and his reaction having been denied from her, as she stared blankly at his named etched back at her.

As she got ready this morning, it felt like it was the first day of class several years ago. When she’d stood up, trying to deflect the attention away from the sweet guy who was made to admit he had been wait listed to the entire class. The same nerves buried in that shy girl, now returning in the form of morning sickness.

“Okay,” she sighs, her free hand coming to the smallest of bumps not even noticeable underneath her sweater. “Let’s do this,” she says, her only confidante these days the tiny baby growing inside her.

Opening the door, she moves to lock the door, running straight into her father.

Her face immediately reflecting shock, and then quickly settling into an annoyed anger, that she tried to rein in, not wanting to let him in on what she knew. Quickly removing her hand from her stomach, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

“I gotta go, I’m late,” she announces, bypassing him and heading down the hall.

“Mija,” he calls, and her eyes close, her long lashes fluttering across her skin. Hoping that he doesn’t make this into a thing, her will-power to not strangle him right there using up all her strength. “You keep avoiding me and I’m going to have to find out why,” he threatens. And she grits her teeth, knowing the last time he tapped her phone, the records revealed something more curious, more phone calls than normal to a certain person named Wes.

Her head tilts back, her shorter hair not even touching where it used to lay, as she eyes her dad.

“Papá,” she reasons, trying her best to even her tone, act as if nothing more than the stress of being late getting to her. “I gotta go. Later, I promise,” knowing full well that he wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted from her.

He concedes, letting her go, and by the time she finds herself in the lecture room, she’s close near tears, settling into her seat.

She can feel the eyes of the other circling back to her all class, Annalise purposely avoiding calling her, tint of red on her cheeks, glistening tears preparing their free fall down her cheeks.

When class ends, she can barely recall what had been said, an awful start to tough semester, one only made more difficult by the impending life she was bringing into the world.

She stands with defeat, the day already determined to knock her down.

“My dad’s here,” she declares, as they approach her seat.

“What? Like your Dad dad,” Asher asks, as if she had several.

“Great,” Connor sarcastically announces, as Michaela eyes her, exhaustion refusing to be hidden even underneath the makeup she’d applied this morning.

“This is good,” Annalise says, nodding, a plan already formulating in her mind.

“How is this good? She’s gonna give it away the moment he talks to her, I mean, look at her?” Connor throws his hands up at her. Laurel’s brow knits together, a frown appearing on her face, and a snide remark resting on her tongue, but is interrupted.

“She can suss him out, get a clue as to what’s going on, what our timeframe is,” Annalise explains, her hand coming out to grab Laurel’s arm. “You can do this,” she says with a confidence that Laurel wished she had, all her gumption having long since been spent on the rage she felt immediately after it happened.

“What if he finds out…about…you know,” Michaela says with a head tilt towards Laurel’s abdomen.

“He likely already knows if he’s been tracking her like we suspect,” Annalise says, circling the group before landing on her again.

Laurel’s thumbnail has found its way to her mouth, the nail having long since been sacrificed in place of her nerves, but the habit remains.

“I umm, I have somewhere to umm, go, before I meet him,” she claims, gathering her stuff.

“Laurel,” Michaela calls after her.

“She’s gonna blow this,” can be heard as she walks up the steps to exit.

Her feet are moving towards the cemetery before her mind has time to catch up, the events of this morning replaying over in her mind, the thought of her dad having knowledge of her baby, the threat that could be posed from just that, causing her to wring her hands together.

Her black boots shovel the earth as she makes her way up the hill. The curls from the memorial having been cut, shedding the life from before, not quite embracing the new, but needing a change, one that she could control, the rest of her world spinning off its axis.

Before long she’s made it to the familiar stone, the one that’s heard more from her heart than any of the others.

She flops down, legs crossed, hands working themselves into a nervous fit in her lap, pulling out her phone to check the clock, right on time.

“My dad’s here,” she says, her brow rising, with a defiant jerk of her head. “He thinks he can just show up, unannounced, like he always does, like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t the reason I have to come here to talk to you…”

The wind rustles her hair, and she curls further into her sweater.

“Annalise thinks it’s good. But…whatever, that’s not what you want to hear is it?” She ask with a dimpled grin.

Reaching into her bag, she pulls out the latest sonogram picture, her baby actually resembling a baby this time around, and she places the photo up against the stone.

“Baby’s healthy, already determined to make me fat,” she admits with a pat to her stomach and a laugh.

Her face quickly falling.

“I wish you were here with us,” she whispers, hoping the wind catches onto her words and carries them to their recipient.

She sits there in silence, before quietly moving forward, appearing to adjust the sonogram, making sure it’s secure, while reaching around for what she was looking for.

Checking the time again, she stands, sleeves of her sweater pulled down, hiding her hands.

“Bye Wes,” she bids farewell, slowly moving the note into view underneath her sleeve.

The laughter over his words escaping her down the hill, the first time she’d really laughed in weeks, exactly what she needed before facing her father.

_“You know me, I’m good at waiting for good things to come. I love you…both. (I’m gonna be a Daddy!)”_


	14. Chapter 14

Laurel can see Wes looking around the terminal out of the corner of her eye. Children are running wild around the chairs, annoyed looks being shot at their parents who obliviously did nothing. The screaming chaos giving Wes an excuse to let his mind wander, his leg bouncing up and down, restlessly, as his hands slide against his jeans, likely wiping the sweaty feeling that seemed to have overcome him.

She drops her phone from her view, and reaches out with her own hand, landing on his knee.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not meeting her eyes but instead focusing on her fingers that gently swept across the span of his leg, trying to calm him down.

“You really don’t like flying, do you?” She asks sympathetically, not wanting to have inflicted even more emotional stress on him than was already swirling around in that head of his.

“What?” He stumbles, distracted by her hand. “Umm, no, not really,” he admits, his anxious energy channeling into a jittery mess of limbs.

She nods silently at him, letting him have his silence, but still keeps her hand firmly planted on him until they board the plane.

Once situated, she pulls out a book, determined to get some studying done on this impromptu trip, distract her mind from the paper resting in her bag. The truth of his mother’s death hidden from his view, her shield of protection shrouding him in his ignorance, refusing to let him get hurt again.

Her arm rest against the tiny window, her fingers working through her hair, twisting strands, before letting them flop back into place, her pen hitting the book every once in a while in a nervous habit that seemed to annoy most everyone. Everyone except the man sitting next to her.

Slamming her book shut, she turns her attention towards him.

Noticing her eyes on him, he stills. Bringing his head back to the seat, his eyes closing in the process, but his hands still swiping at his pants.

This time Laurel reaches out, grabbing his hand instead, his jittery long fingers immediately intertwining with her own, bringing a soft smile to her face that he doesn’t even notice with his eyes resting shut.

“Why me?” He whispers into the cabin of the airplane, hitting her ears, causing the grip she has on his hand to twitch into a squeeze, unsure of what he’s referring to, but the pain dripping from his words seems to be transferred through the connection of their hands, shaking her awake, and glancing down at them.

When she doesn’t respond, he peeks his eye open at her with a grin.

“The kiss,” he throws out, shattering their silent agreement to not bring that up.

“What do you mean?” She stalls, her other hand coming to her mouth, working her fingernail in that nervous way that always has him shaking his head at her.

“It was a mistake, right?” He asks, trepidation tinging his words, and causing her eyes to jolt up to his own, the soft brown searching her face for a sign, any sign, of how to tread through the situation she’d put them in.

Her lips purse, her brow furrowed, trying to steel her expression, and failing miserably, striking something that looks a bit like hurt mixed with confusion.

“Moment of weakness, you were there, I just…you’re a good listener,” she says casually, peeking at him through her dark lashes.

“Right,” he hesitantly agrees, and her eyes go wide, as she cocks her head to the side, a silly expression she doesn’t even realize she’s making.

“Yeah,” she says leaning back against her seat, extracting her hand from his. “Just a comforting kiss between friends,” she justifies with a little laugh, a crooked grin, with obvious eyes challenging her statement.

“You were sad, you would’ve kissed anyone in that moment,” he ventures, his leg going back to jumping up and down in small motions.

Her hand moves to smack his chest at that comment, a raised eyebrow daring him to say more.

He laughs, but his hands fly up in surrender as he stumbles over his explanation.

“That’s…that’s not what I meant,” his puppy dog eyes begging for forgiveness.

“I know,” she says, letting him off the hook.

She slides her head still resting on the back of the chair so only her face is turned towards him, her hair pulled back behind her ears, her eyes fiercely blue, contrasted with the blue of the seat.

“Wes,” she says, catching his attention from his lap, the overwhelming guilt over everything this man didn’t know about what she was hiding, not just the paper she’d stolen. The security she seemed to feel whenever he was near, the slight tingle she’d feel whenever their hands met, sure that he was the type of good she needed in her life, but too afraid to reach out and take it for herself, instead clinging to those who only brought her down, maintaining a friendship with Wes, while yearning for more, the kiss from last night only sparking that notion into something of a lightning storm inside her. Struck.

“Laurel,” he says, calling her back.

She fights the words she wants to say with the words threatening to screech out of her mouth with a ferocity she’s sure he’s not ready for. Sure that a relationship with her would only strip him of everything good, leaving him with nothing, and her with unsurmountable guilt.

“I wouldn’t have kissed anyone else,” she finally admits.


	15. Chapter 15

She reaches out, grasping for his hand, never quite able to get ahold of him. His name is yelled from her lips, tears pricking at her eyes, as the distance grows further and further between them. The flames dancing at her feet, keeping her from moving closer, his face stricken with panic, while her tone becomes more desperate, pleading with him, somebody, to reach just a bit further.

The first flame licks at her leg, and she jumps back at its burn. She looks down to find a scarlet mark eating away at her, the sense of urgency from before overwhelms her, as the fire laps at her skin.

She inches closer still, this time from the side, deciding that her arm will be longer from that position. His fingertips whispering against his, before the flames bite at her side now, the pain searing into her, scarring her from its warning, as she topples over, engulfed in the heat, the only word uttered from he lips, a shriek of sorts…

Wes.

She’s stirred awake with a startle, the closing of a thick book heard behind her, the pain from the dream having lingered into the real world, a twinge in her side, and light sheen of sweat covering her.

“Wes,” she repeats from the dream, reaching out only to find her protruding stomach resting against the edge of the bed.

“I’m here,” she hears from behind her, soon followed by his arm coming to rest on the side that once seared with a burn so bad she swore it was real. His hand spans across her stomach, as she slowly rolls to her back.

Her hands immediately cover his one, her bearings slowly bringing her back to the present, the squirming kicks of her baby letting its presence be known.

“You okay?” Wes asks, his free hand coming to her sweaty forehead, pushing back the matted down tendrils of hair. His face reflecting the same panic that she feels still shaking in her nerves.

Her brow knits together, his steady breath, constant, carefully breathing the life back into her, letting her know that it was nothing more than a dream, a nightmare at that.

She nods, a relieved smile making its way to her mouth, a deep sigh leaving her eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments, a flame catching her eye, sending them flying back open.

“Baby keeping you up?” He questions, unaware of the recurring nightmare that won’t release her from its grip.

“My back hurts, that’s all,” she admits, carefully adjusting herself to a sitting position, the action taking longer with each passing day.

It wasn’t that she was keeping the images that haunted her at night a secret from him, but rather she didn’t think it was important. She’d read that odd dreams were common during pregnancy, and this one definitely qualified as that.

But as she settles up against the pillow, her hands always finding themselves on her stomach, one on top, one on bottom, as if cradling the unborn baby that was due to make its appearance in just a few short months.

She lets out a bit of a cough, a clearing of her throat, changing the subject.

“Are you still studying?” She asks with a nod of her head towards the book she’d heard him close.

“Uhh, yeah,” he admits almost shyly. “Just wanted to make sure I’ve got a good handle on the material.”

“Mmmhmm, “ she says with a smile, her eyes passing over him, shirtless, only a pair of shorts on, the hot summer days eating into spring, threatening to make their appearance earlier this year than usual.

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” His head whipping around to her.

She moves her elbow to rest against her stomach, propping her chin up on her hand.

“I am not,” she says innocently. “It’s just…you know this. You’ve been quizzing me the past two weeks, I know you know the material.”

“Yeah…but I want to do well for…you both,” he tapers off, and she knows what he means. The same thought had been circling around her more than anyone. The judgment had been there when the news had come out about her pregnancy. She knew it, she caught the looks, the whispers, and she knows they also caught her narrowed eyes and choice words too. But the biggest fuck you would be when they pulled it off. 

Parents and lawyers.

“Me too,” she assures him, her hand coming to rub his bare back, before settling on his neck, her fingers teasingly tugging on his ear with a grin.

His head turns, his brown eyes searching her face, nothing but adoration reflected back at him, but behind her eyes, a lingering terror that wasn’t just from the nightmare, but also the fear of falling prey to the predictions of her classmates, of turning into father, the list never ceasing to stop adding reasons why she was going to fail at this whole thing.

“You’re having nightmares, aren’t you?”

She’s not sure how he knows, chalks it up to him knowing her better than anyone. Her silence signaling a confirmation.

“I’m here,” he assures her again, scooting closer to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders until her head is resting on his shoulder, her lips poised at his neck. “I’m right here.”


	16. Chapter 16

Laurel mills around the party, her usually parted down the middle hair thrown every which way as her hand fidgets with her curls.

Taking another sip from her cup, she maneuvers her way around people, polite smiles, but a glint in her eye suggesting that was all she was willing to tolerate.

Her eyes had lit up with excitement upon seeing Wes surprised by his party, only to have Meggy throw herself at him, catching her easily, a smile upon his face. She couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that seemingly stabbed her right in the gut at witnessing this, her face instantly falling without a mask present to shield her emotions from the people around her.

A deep breath, a fling of her hair to the side, and she’d quietly began her night of evading anything and everyone, casting herself to the corners of the room, blending in with shadows who seemed to share in her despair. 

Wes had said he was happy, and she’d balked at his response, the idea seeming somewhat absurd at this point, the past never quite able to remain in the past, always sneaking its way into their present. But he was trying. And she wasn’t. She found herself clinging to hurt, her happiness just out of reach and currently dancing with Meggy.

She can see them swaying in front of her, and she takes another long sip from her cup, her curls spiraling into something of dismay atop her head, refusing to conform and instead giving her a disheveled look to match her mood.

Quietly standing from her place, she tries to sneak out, grabbing her bag. The bitterness having been choked back long enough that night, the tears threatening to betray her in a matter of moments.

She reaches the landing of the stairs, not stumbling from the alcohol, but rather the foggy mist clouding her eyes that wouldn’t seem to let up.

“Leaving already?” She hears, and she pauses where she is. Her head tips slightly forward using her hair to shield his view from her face, as her free hand moves to wipe any stray tears.

By the time she whips around to see him, she’s plastered a fake smile to her lips, sniffing slightly, and waving her hand around to distract him from her face.

“Uhh, yeah, I’m exhausted, long day, and you’ve got…everyone,” she says with a squint of her eyes, refusing to mention Meggy’s name, not trusting herself with that.

He has a slight smirk playing on his lips as he makes his way down the stairs, hands behind his back, her feet refusing to move, instead planting her to the platform, her eyes dashing wildly around, not sure where this conversation was going, and not wanting it to end in an argument. Not for his birthday.

One of his hands reaches out, the other still remaining behind him, noticing her hair thrown every which way, and he twists the edges between his fingertips.

“You didn’t let me give you your gift,” he laughs, sitting down on the third to last step, the rest of the party unaware of their absence, leaving them secluded in a stairwell.

He pats the spot on the stair next to him, motioning for her to sit next to him.

She reluctantly makes her way to him, turning around to sit with a playfully narrowed eye, plopping down next to him. The sleeves of her sweater make their way into the palm of her hand, shrouding herself in the protection of fabric.

“You know, that’s not how birthdays work, Wes. You’re supposed to get the gifts, not give them,” she teases, leaning forward so her forearms align with her thighs, her painted nails beginning to chip, as she picks at them nervously.

“Just take the gift,” his dimples beg.

She slowly unwraps the present, done up in a newspaper that tints her fingertips, inking her as his own, as she slides over the tape.

When she peeks inside of the box, she can’t hide the grin, and a sharp laugh breaks free.

“Wes,” she giggles, glancing over at him, this time her tears a mixture of amusement and something so dangerously sweet she’s afraid to touch it, afraid it’ll embed her so deeply into his skin that she’d never want to leave.

“This way you can stop stealing mine,” he jokes with a raise of his eyebrow.

“I don’t steal your shirts,” she says, hitting him with a half formed fist on his chest.

“The blue one…”

“I’m pretty sure it’s grey,” she says, pulling out the plaid shirt that he’d given her, immediately bringing it to her nose out of habit before realizing what she’d done.

“It’s blue,” he says in a low whisper.

She tucks the sleeve back into the box.

“Brand new,” she proclaims.

“Well, it’s yours,” he says with a triumphant grin, and her eyes meet his, her shoulder close enough to brush against his own.

Her tongue comes out to lick her bottom lip, her dimples forming at the gesture. Momentarily breaking eye contact to glance back down at the box, before passing it over to his lap.

“Keep it here for me,” she says with a smile, and a confused expression painting his grin.

“You don’t…”

“It doesn’t…,” and she stops herself, not wanting to admit that the reason she steals his shirts is because the smell permeates her senses, making her feel safe even when he’s not around. “It’s no fun if a crime isn’t occurring,” she finishes, making a joke of the exchange.

“So you admit it, you do steal them,” he says like a lawyer who just won his case.

“Maybe,” she says, hitting his shoulder playfully, easing the tension of the moment.

“Laurel —” he starts, leaning forward a little.

“You should probably get back in there, they’ll start to miss you,” she gestures back to the door behind them, waiting party guests getting drunker by the second.

“Yeah,” he says with a shake of his head, as if getting rid of the thoughts swirling around were enough to dissipate with the move. “Right.”

He puts a free hand down to push himself off the stairs, the box with the shirt in his other.

She’s not sure why she does it, but she grips his hand, her chipped nails resting on his palm, running down his lifeline, her head tipping back, to stare up at him.

“Happy Birthday, Wes,” she says with a smile so sincere she knows he can feel it.

“Thanks,” he replies, his face mirroring her own.

The door opening to a drunk Asher.

Their hands immediately separating, Laurel moving to adjust her hair, a nervous tick.

“There you are, man. Get back in here,” he slurs, the music blaring into the hallway. “We love ya!” he bellows, and Laurel can’t help the snicker, as Wes’ eyes go wide, walking backwards, refusing to break eye contact with her.

“Love ya,” he mouths, clearly mocking Asher, but the words are there, said to her, the heat of the blush on her face refusing to let up.

She gives a nod.

“Take care of that shirt,” she says, as he’s grabbed back into the party, door quickly closed, leaving her alone in the hallway with those words lingering in the empty space, the dissonance between the context they were said and the way she wished they had been said ringing so loudly in her ears, she can’t hear anything else.

“I love you, too,” she whispers to nobody but the thoughts swirling in her head, as she glances down to the black of the newspaper staining her hands.


	17. Chapter 17

Laurel’s fingernail finds its way to her mouth, her hair down, tosseled from her hand running through it several times. Wes’ plaid shirt hung loosely on her frame, and the blanket covered her legs, a discarded container of food resting precariously in between her legs.

Wes passed through the room like it was his own, several of his items spread throughout the space, spare clothes, most of which Laurel had claimed as her own, relinquishing ownership only for his smell to permeate the next garment before adorning herself.

As he shuffles through the room, she tracks him with nervous blue eyes, her teeth worrying her finger, the inside of her cheek already raw from having chewed on that as well. She knew he was speaking, babbling on about something, but her mind was swirling with every fear and worry, mixing into a lethal combination that had left her paralyzed to her spot in bed.

He flops onto the bed, half of his body hanging off, resting on his hand propping him up to look up at her.

She’s startled by the movement, swallowing her courage, and giving him a brief, fake smile, trying to dissipate whatever suspicion he may have, but coming out completely obvious, her skill of deceit failing her in every way when it came to him.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” He asks, dimpled smile looking up at her, not quite having caught on to the severity of the situation…but he would.

“Nothing,” she says, yanking her hand down to her lap, busying it by placing the carton of food on the night stand. “I’m good,” she says, scooting all the way back, resting against the pillow, putting more space between them.

Wes turns over on his stomach so he can see her, almost crawling over to where she sits. His hand resting on her thigh, his fingers reaching for the material of the shirt.

“Mine?” He asks with a laugh.

“Mine,” she repeats with a lift of her brow.

“Right,” he says with a squeeze to her leg, before turning over to rest on his back, staring up at the fan she’d put on high despite it being winter.

The room fills with silence, all that’s being left unsaid hanging between them, as she stares down at him, her fingernail finding its way back to her mouth.

He crosses his fingers across his stomach, her long lashes fluttering with a deep breath, and she begins to imagine the same lashes on a baby, small, and cradled in between them. Flailing limbs, incoherent sounds making its way across the silence, she can see it.

A little baby that looks a little like her, a lot like him, sleepless nights, hectic mornings, her breath hitching at the thought. The fear trickling through her. And she looks down to see those big brown eyes staring up at her with concern, and then she sees the tickle fits, and the goofy faces, words like Daddy, and Mamá, soccer games and gymnastics meets, a pair of little matching eyes staring up at her with such love and adoration, she almost doesn’t recognize it, if she hadn’t had the same thing reflected back at her right this second.

The feeling was something unfamiliar, the vision unrecognizable, but something she’d wished for growing up.

A family.

She knows he’d dreamt up the same, many a sleepless night spent talking about their pasts, their hopes, their dreams of a future while muddling through the crap. They’d had those back when they were just friends, and now once spoken out loud as wishes, had suddenly been granted at the most inconvenient of times.

“Laurel?” He asks, catching her attention, shaking her from her reverie.

“I’m pregnant,” the words escaping from her in a breath, no longer able to keep buried. A worried look passes her face, unsure of how he’d react. Their relationship so new, so tentative on where they are in life, both working towards a goal that could be possibly hindered by the bomb she’d just dropped on him.

His face remains placid, causing her brow to furrow at his lack of a reaction. He’s rolling over before she can say anything, his hand coming to grasp at her shirt again, like before.

This time he pushes it up, exposing her flat stomach, both of his hands resting on her hips, his thumbs moving side to side across her abdomen.

“Mine,” he says, not a question, but a statement, as he looks up at her again, those same brown eyes easing her worries, and carrying with them an excitement she hadn’t yet allowed herself to feel.

“Ours,” she responds, with a tiny grin outlined in nerves, an anxious laugh escaping him at her hesitant smile.

And then they’re both laughing, the absurdity of their situation both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying at what they’d created.

_A family._


	18. Chapter 18

The summer had been long, the heat leaving Laurel feeling like she was gasping for breath even far away from the murder and the lies and the worry.

Separation had seemed like a good way settle her mind, ease the tension. But the phone played tricks on her mind, taunting her, begging her to dial his number, leave another voicemail.

Stumbling out of bed, she wandered out onto the porch, her hair tangled in a knot, the blonde she’d put in her hair, glowing in the morning sun, as she feels like bursting into flames as her feet hit the tile, heated by the rays, and ready to scorch the skin of any who dare to wander onto its vacancy.

The steam of her coffee wafts in her face, and she takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell with a content smile. Her eyes hanging low, not quite up until she’d had her caffeine.

Sitting in one of the chairs, her fingers come to swipe at her eye, wiping the sleep away, and stretching.

She’s barely awake to the see the name on her phone as it vibrates to life with a call coming in. With a squint she sees the short, three letters flash, and she picks up without another thought, a smile immediately painted across her lips.

“Good morning,” she answers out of habit. Wes had been calling her every morning since the summer started, and she was hitting his name before they went to bed. For every call she’d placed to him, two more were connected with Wes.

He was usually the first voice she heard in the morning, and the last one she fell asleep to.

Pushing her wild hair out of her face, she brings a knee up to rest with her on the chair, setting her coffee on the small table by the chair.

“I woke you up again, didn’t I?” He asks, the time difference never quite sinking in with him.

She laughs.

“Nope, I’m up and caffeinating,” she assures him.

“Look at you, early riser,” he teases. Having joked the other morning that the reason she woke up so late in the summer was because she no longer had him to deliver her coffee to her before class. “Keeping her in caffeine,” is what he’d claimed, and she’d laughed, that high-pitched, mouth open wide laugh she was self-conscious about, but found herself letting out its howl only for him these days.

“So what’s been happening in the…ten hours or so we haven’t talked?” She asks, taking a sip of the coffee not delivered by Wes.

“I umm,” he pauses, and she stills, not having expected him to actually answer that question with anything of significance. “I met someone,” he admits.

“Someone?” Laurel questions, her smile quickly replaced with a furrowed brow and a fallen smile.

“Uhh, yeah, I was up getting some tea this morning, and there was this woman, she was just getting off shift…”

She’s not sure she hears the rest, the idea floating in her head that he’d gone out to get a drink and had somehow met someone in the span of a couple of handful of hours that she’d last spoken to him.

Her mouth goes dry, and she sets her coffee back down, her thumbnail being bitten between the receiver the truth that was about to smack her in the face.

“Laurel, you there?” He asks, and she nods, swiping at her eye again, this time to make sure no moisture had gathered. “Laurel?” He questions again, having not seen her nod.

“Uhh, yeah, I’m here. So you met someone. That’s…great,” she says, pursing her lips, eyes growing wide, and pulling her neck back, the kind of awkward behavior he would’ve been able to see right through had he actually been able to see her. But instead they sat in different countries, him with the new company of some woman, and her with nothing but a caffeinated drink that was sure to turn cold with abandonment after this conversation. Much like every relationship she seemed to have these days.

“Her name’s Meggy, she’s really nice and just…normal,” he admits the last part with a laugh.

Normal. A word that never could’ve been used to describe her. The quiet girl long since abdicated her spot in the shadows, taking center stage on the crazy train. Finding her only comfort in the man whose phone calls were the only thing keeping her sane the past couple months, now leaving her for someone…normal.

“Good. I’m happy for you, Wes. You deserve that. You do,” she says, closing her eyes, the sincerity in the comment genuine. He deserved all the good that was able to walk into his life. It was a hard reality to face. The realization that she’d become so damaged, so unaffected by it all, hardened by her life’s events that she could no longer be capable of having that kind of good in her life. And Wes was the best kind of good, the purest. That kind of good she didn’t want to taint.

“Thanks, Laurel,” he says shyly, almost as if he too believed he wasn’t allowed something good like this.

“Listen, I uhh, I gotta go,” she says with a nervous laugh. “But I’ll, umm, I’ll call you tonight,” she assures him, not trusting herself to pour anything else into this conversation of _Meggy_.

“Uhh, actually, I’m going out tonight…with Meggy. But I could call you after…?”

She smiles sadly to herself.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. I’ll, umm, you know, I’ll be back soon, I’ll just text you when I get back, we can get coffee,” she says with a sniffle, playing it off as a stuffy nose.

“I’ll resume my job of keeping you caffeinated,” he jokes, but it falls flat on her end.

“See ya, Wes,” she says, ready to end the call.

“Bye, Laurel. Fly safe,” and then he’s gone.

She hears the beep indicating the disconnection, and she leans her phone against her lips, her eyes closing at the flood of information.

Pushing her phone back into view, her fingers hover the name that sent her straight to voicemail every single time, but quickly decided against that, hitting the home button, only to be met with her background. A goofy picture of her and Wes she’d taken during a late night study session last year.

 _“Good for him,_ ” she thinks. _“He deserves better…”_

But she can’t help but adding a, “than me” to the end of that thought. Resigning herself to nothing more than friends, undeserving of anything more.

Unaware of fate’s plans for them.


	19. Chapter 19

The steady pulse beats against her temples, her forehead, forming a crown of rhythmic pain around her, shrouding her in reminders, refusing to release her from her self-inflicted torture.

She’d shown up that morning, hair tossed, giant bottle of pedialite, chugging slowly, with absolutely no relief. The swirling images of lies, deceit kept fogging her brain, entangled only in the information that had been spilled to her the night before. One more reminder that everything she’d willing jumped right into had come back to bite her in the ass.

With a deep sigh, she rests her hands on the cool counter, the heat from the coffee pot wafting over her skin, the urge to reach out and place her palm on the glass, just to feel something other than…numb, tempting. The bubbling liquid being drained from its contents, feeling like her extinguished energy, the steady beat never letting up.

“You okay?” Wes asks, entering the kitchen, and she startles from her position. The white of the counter blurring as she looks up quickly. 

He always seems to seek her out when she needs him the most, not even a word needed for him to sense as much. He leans against the door, arms crossed, and she feels much like him, ready to shield herself from the prying view of everyone, her eyes signaling the answer to his question, reciprocating the sentiment, knowing that neither one of them were to give a more honest answer than the exhaustive sigh she’d echoed at him.

The disbelief of his statement that Annalise was protecting him was only masked by the shock at who was revealed to be his father.

Turning away from him, as he sits against the table, she shakes her head at her luck.

His persistence in finding the truth, meeting the man that had abandoned him, caused his mother’s death, never given a second thought to him, troubled her in a way that had her stepping back, pleading with him to leave it alone.

“Your dad has nothing to do with who you are,” she admits, and although the sentiment is sent towards him, its fletching points at her, the ricochet of her statement stinging her with a bite.

Stepping towards him, he’s so tall, even hovering on a table, he’s eye level with her. His brown eyes teary with frustration, unknown explanations awaiting him in New York, begging him to go up there, find the missing piece.

“I know,” he says, letting out a breath, glancing anywhere but at her.

“Hey,” she says, directing his eyes back to her. “I get it, you know I do.” Upon her words, she swears she can see the flash of their conversation in Cleveland flurry through him. 

The tears had come easily that night, pouring from her like the truth she’d been burying inside her. She knew the moment she’d starting something with Frank that she was stepping into dangerous territory. The signs were there, red flashing lights warning her that this was no different than her childhood. But the taste of something old, this time her choice, had tempted her to fall into the same trap.

“They never choose you,” she whispers, her brow creased, her bottom lip jutting out just slightly, refusing to cry again in front of him, but knowing all too well the acceptance, the want for that family. Not to be discarded, the last choice.

His eyes close, his long lashes dusting the bags under his eyes, with a slight nod. He knows her truth, her story, and how it mirrors his own. The terrible men in their life threatening to take what semblance of a normal they’d been fighting tooth and nail to obtain.

“You’re right,” he agrees, moving to look her in the eye. And she wonders what he sees. Lately, looking in the mirror she saw someone reflected back to her that she didn’t like much. A person that reeked of shame and mistakes etched into a fine stone mask that she wore to keep it together. The group needing her to stay just as unaffected as ever, the house of cards they’d assembled about to crumble to the ground, panic setting in with Annalise missing.

The tiniest of grins appears on her face when he doesn’t retract back from what he sees. The same way he’d only leaned towards her that night in the car. Afraid that she’d scare him off, revealed too much, he’d sat there patiently, only willing to take whatever she was able to give.

“Of course I am,” her dimples popping out to tease him, as his eyes break their contact to glance down at her mouth.

A sight scoff escapes him, as his looks at her, so content in decision.

“Not about everything,” he counters, and her face scrunches ever so close to his own, denying the idea that she was wrong about him.

“Like what?” Her eyes never narrowing at his accusation, instead glistening with curiosity.

He leans slightly forward, her lips meeting his without hesitation. The distance much shorter than the last, but the taste so familiar. Her hand finding its way to his hair as the pressure from the kiss sinks into her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering shut, the steady beat of her headache now magnified into the pulse of her heart speeding up at his touch.

For the first time that day she felt something, something good. The kind of right that left her breathless, and wanting of more, hopeful, secure in the decision rather than the touch of shame upon her skin, it was a fire that had lit itself to a quiet burn that now engulfed her.

Until the noise of the door jolts them apart, a guilty look not even daring to stain her face, her mask once again reappearing, while a shy smile plays on Wes’ lips, as they move to the next room, having been interrupted by Frank.

A case of matching dimples meet each other in the quiet hallway at the thought of someone putting the other first, of choosing Wes, and in turn him choosing her.

Turns out, Laurel wasn’t always right. They had chosen each other.


	20. Chapter 20

Laurel’s shoes clack against the wooden stairs, winding up a dark staircase, with music blasting through the halls. Adjusting the strap of her bag, she heads up to the floor she needs.

Waiting outside the door, she raises her hand to knock, hesitating for just a second, unsure what exactly she’s doing there. The insults thrown at him earlier tonight had stuck in her head, the instinct to protect him immediate.

Looking down, she gives herself a sad smile, tucks her hair behind her ear, and knocks with a shake of her head. The rings on her fingers vibrating with the force.

She’s met with a shocked face, big brown eyes staring at her as if she had two heads, his body standing in the way of her coming in.

“Laurel…?” Wes asks, almost as if unsure that that is in fact her name.

Her mouth becomes tight, but her eyes glitter with amusement.

“You gonna let me in?” She asks, trying to peek around him to see inside.

“Uhh…yeah, yeah,” he stutters, moving aside only to frantically check around the place, for what, she’s not sure, but he looks nervous. “What umm, what are doing here?”

Laurel shyly stands by the door, glancing around at his sparse belongings and run down place.

“I uhh, thought we could help each other out…” she starts, and his eyes grow even wider than before. “With the case,” she finishes, and he seems to relax a bit.

Wes tilts his head, quietly staring at her, and she begins to heat up with a blush, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Sure, I just got the supplemental arrest report,” he offers, and she accepts the invitation.

Before long, they’re both seated against the headboard of his bed, folders and notebooks scattered around them, pens moving furiously, as they work in silence.

Unconsciously, her fingers begin to become idle, grabbing at a strand of hair, resting her elbow against the headboard, holding her forearm vertical, twisting and turning the hair.

It’s not until she hears a laugh next to her, that she pauses, looking over at him with a furrowed brow, and innocent eyes, unsure of what he’s laughing at.

“I thought girls twirling their hair was a myth,” he jokes. And she realizes where her hand is, and she lowers it, embarrassedly. 

“Nervous habit,” she admits. “Sorry,” slipping out, as she looks away, back to her work.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” he jokes, lightly hitting her against the shoulder with his own.

“Thanks,” she says with a huff, peeking at him.

Wes sets his work aside, situating himself to where he’s now facing her, his full attention directed at her, and she flops her hands down on the notebook in front of her.

“Can I ask you a question?” He prefaces with a question. And she can’t help but think she’d never met anyone that…nice before. He made her nervous, in the kind of way that had butterflies floating in her stomach. His warm, brown eyes, gentle nature, suggesting that he wasn’t one to play games, wasn’t one to hurt her.

“Umm, sure,” she agrees.

“They all hate me, call me Waitlist,” he says, a dimpled grin smiling right at her.

She frowns, the nickname still rubbing her the wrong way. Not knowing much about him, but enough to know he didn’t deserve that.

“But you don’t,” he spits out before she can answer. It’s not a question, but rather a statement, one that has her stilling in place, her eyes searching his face for where he was going with this. She pulls the sleeves of her sweater lower down on her hands.

“Is there a question in there?” She asks, teasing him, sounding all too familiar to a lawyer, even now.

“Why?” And the question is so innocent, not self-deprecating in the least, just genuinely curious as to why she was the exception. “The first day, you…” he trails off, as a knock against his door startles them both, and they quickly separate, unaware of how close they’d both gotten to each other as they spoke.

Glancing at the clock as he gets up to get the door, she realizes it’s nearly 4 a.m., the time having slipped by her, the realization slamming her against the chest. Glancing up to find a girl in a towel, something about flushed drugs, and needing to use Wes’ shower.

She can see the hesitancy in his posture, eyes flickering to her, as the girl peeks around him to see her.

Suddenly she feels stupid, ridiculous to assume that someone like Wes, someone good, could perhaps like her, even as a friend.

“I uhh, I should go,” Laurel says, quickly gathering her things and tossing them into her bag, slinging it onto her shoulder, and hurriedly moving towards the door.

“Laurel, you don’t have to go,” he pleads, the awkward situation not one that either of them could’ve predicted when she decided to come over.

“It’s fine,” she says, eyes squinting at him. “I’ll see ya tomorrow,” she says, glancing at the girl still in her towel, who smiles at her, which just sends Laurel quickly down the stairs.

“Did I interrupt something?” She hears being asked, as she makes her way out of the building.

“No,” Laurel whispers, chastising herself for daring to think she deserved something better, or rather, someone better. Wes.


	21. Chapter 21

“I’ll be right back,” she hears, with a squeeze of her shoulder, before she’s left alone.

Laurel tilts her head back with a sigh, her shorter curls, bouncing over her shoulder, moving the files she was just given to one hand, the other coming to rest against her stomach, her baby kicking, demanding they take a rest.

A long day in court watching Asher stumble his way through his notecards had left her fighting to keep her eyes open. The struggle that everyone had warned her about had begun to take a toll. Balancing school and impending motherhood not something recommended, and yet the path she’d chosen. Sleep seeming to come less and less except at the most inconvenient times. Her eyelids fighting to stay open as the case droned on, and her baby deciding that using her bladder as a soccer ball was something amusing.

Collapsing onto the bench, she closes her eyes, her mascara covered eyelashes fluttering against her skin, and her hand coming to rest on her forehead, holding her head up, a much needed resting of her eyes. The commotion around her suddenly dimming into background noise, the hall muffled, and compliant to her needs, and she swears she can feel the calm even reach her stirring child.

She can hear the bench squeak against the floor when someone joins her, expecting Wes to pull her against his chest, wrap her up and allow her the nap that she deserved. The same thing having happened last week. Dozing off on a bench, only to wake up, her head resting on his shoulder, and his fingers tracing imaginary lines on her arm.

“Do you know the sex yet?” She hears directed at her.

Biting her lip, and using her fingers to frustratingly pull her hair out of her face, she gives a false, close-mouthed smile at the woman who’d just interrupted her moment alone.

“No,” she answers without thinking, almost half a mind to play dumb, or get up and leave. But her feet pulsed in her heels, and she knew they’d scream in protest if she attempted to vacate that bench.

“Do you want to know? Back in the day, my kids were all a surprise—“ The older woman goes on, and Laurel wants to pay attention, be polite, but she just doesn’t have the energy. Between classes and court, and a baby demanding all her energy, she felt drained. So she continues with the fake smile, nodding every once in a while. “I hope you have a good man, and make sure—“ Taking in the advice that seemed to come from just about everyone, even the childless. Apparently, everyone knew more about babies than she did.

The worst thought was always when…there it was.

When they touched her stomach. It was like a giant magnet, begging for random strangers that she wouldn’t want to share an elevator with, now feeling welcome to reach out and touch her, no matter where she was.

And while she knew they meant no harm, she couldn’t help but flinch, her first instinct for her own hand to take the place of the strangers, and turn away.

“Okay, then,” Laurel says, heaving herself up, her feet screaming, and her back not too pleased either. “I uhh, I gotta go…court,” she makes up, gesturing down to the files still clutched in her hand.

Turning, she runs right into the chest of Wes, his hands instantly coming to steady her, as her files drop to the floor.

A frustrating groan escapes her, as she prepares to lean down to get them, but he’s already gathering them quickly, popping back up with them still in his hand, a goofy grin on his face.

“You in a hurry?” He teasingly asks, and her eyes close, leaning forward for her head to rest against the crook of his neck, her heels giving her the extra inches to make that possible. Her hands come to grip his shirt, as she nuzzles his neck, an involuntary gesture she finds herself doing. Settling herself in to the place that she knows she belongs, refusing to relinquish her hold on him.

“So tired,” she mumbles into him, and he smiles down at her, the woman from before openly staring at them. His free hand coming to wrap around her, her stomach putting some space between them.

“How about I take you home, and—“

“We take a nap,” she finishes for him, so comfortable against him, that if not for her feet, she’d happily stand there and just sleep on his chest.

“Mmhmm,” he says burying his face in her hair, a feather light kiss settlings on the crown of her head, and she smiles into his shirt.

Turning so his arm is now draped over her shoulder, they walk towards the elevator. Passing by the woman that had been talking to them, her lie outed as she passes the courtroom, but a genuine smile escaping her mouth towards the woman, given a wink in return. A witness to the nod she’d given before, that she did indeed have a good man.

“Wes, she looks up at him, and he glances down at her, as they settle towards the back of the elevator so she can lean against the wall as they go down.

He raises his brow at her, waiting for her to continue, his hand once again tracing patterns that only he could see against her arm.

“Thank you,” she sighs, reaching up to still his hand with her fingers grasping his own.

“Uhh, you’re welcome,” he says with a puzzled look. 

She’s sure she’ll one day explain what it means to have something good in her life. Their baby kicking her again, a swift reminder that of the growing good in their lives, and the grasp with which she clung to keep them with her.


	22. Chapter 22

The soft glow of the morning lights shines through Laurel’s bedroom window. Drowning her in warmth, casting a glare on her hair that makes it appear more golden than brown, but it’s the soft tickle against her stomach has her starling awake.

The t-shirt she’d thrown on last night, pushed up to her chest, and her hands find their way to cheeks of the man whose lips are whispering across her abdomen.

Upon her touch, he smiles against her, his lips sending goosebumps all over her body, despite the heated glare cast down on them.

Moving his head to see her, his beard comes to rest against her, and she squirms underneath him.

“Morning,” Wes greets, and her hand comes to her eyes, fluttering closed, as she wipes the sleep from them, exhaustedly.

“It’s too early,” she says with a groan, her hair tangling with the movement of her head against the pillow. Having never been a morning person, his cheery disposition in the morning had often been the either the first thing to smile about or the first thing to roll her eyes at if in a particular tired mood.

This morning, apparently, it was going to be a smile, as he continues staring up at her, his mouth refusing to move from the grin he has plastered across his face until she finds it so contagious, her teeth peek out with a laugh.

Moving her hand, she slides down the bedsheets, the surface smooth beneath her fingertips until she finds his wrist, his hand gripping her hip. A steady, soothing motion of his thumb sliding back and forth over the bone before dipping down into the groove, and climbing its way up again.

Grabbing the wrist, she pulls it up to her face, tilting it towards her, quickly glancing at his watch. The one she’d been too tired to remove from him last night. An odd habit that he often laughed at her for, unaware that she was even doing it, just shedding him of a restraint, wanting to keep him with her forever, time be damned.

“Ugh,” she groans again. “I have to get up,” she says, gently placing his hand down, landing on her ribs. More dips and grooves for his thumb to dance over, tickling her, until she scoots up, halfway between a sitting position and laying down. “I have to meet Michaela this morning,” she says, pursing her lips, elongating her chin, and furrowing her brow.

He fights back a laugh at her.

“What?” She asks, her eyes getting big, a confused look passing her.

“Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head. “You’re cute.”

She rolls her eyes at him, pushing at his face, trying to wipe the goofy grin from his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispers, not the least bit bothered by his claims towards her, finding them endearingly sweet. Just unaccustomed to the sincerity with which his words usually fall upon her.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, his thumb now lightly tapping against where his lips had since vacated.

“Oh yeah?” She asks with a raised brow, adjusting herself further up into a sitting position, reaching for her phone on the nightstand.

Illuminating the screen, she sees several texts from Michaela.

“Mmhmm, I think it’s a boy,”

That statement stills her, and she throws the phone down on the mattress, giving him her attention.

Big brown eyes, refusing to shy away from the topic, pride of the guess playing on his lips, and she knows her eyes are giant pools of blue, threatening to either burst into tears or awkwardly avoid.

“Why is…” she starts, messing her the front of her hair with her fingers, before crossing her arms across her shirt. “Why is that?” She asks, not wanting to put him off, but the nerves of this new situation still vibrate around in her heart at a steady pace of panic.

“Laurel,” he says gently, not wanting to spook her, as he moves to a kneeling position, abandoning his post on her stomach, before coming to sit next to her, his legs extending parallel to her own.

“I don’t…know what…how to do this,” she admits, only just slowly accepting the decision she’d made to have a baby while in school. “I didn’t have the best example.”

His hand moves to grab her’s, his long fingers wrapping around her whole hand, and her thumb makes quick work of tracing the veins that run under his time keeper.

“I don’t either,” he assures her with a laugh.

Her mouth quirks to the side in a thoughtful glance down at her still exposed, flat stomach, holding their future beneath the surface. The calm, present pressure of Wes’ hand resting by her side, pulsing the assurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

She turns to give him a smile, her hair hanging loosely in her eyes, as she glances at the same wild fear playing as confidence, shrouded in sincerity that she knows she’s silently communicating to him, as well.

“I think it’s a girl.”


	23. Chapter 23

She could feel the twinge of pain prick her back and work its way across her abdomen, trickling her muscles to clench, her hand gripping the edge of the bed. Her legs hanging over to reach the floor, her toes trying to grip nothing more than the hard tiles resting below, grasping none, and curling inwards.

The pain had been steady, consistent, unlike before, the clear signs of labor circling her mind, and causing her dark lashes to close, a soft exhale of breath gathered and released into the room, the occupants paying her no mind.

She could hear the voices in the background an argument taking place, no malice present, but rather frustration, scared tones mixing together to be thrown at one another.

“Guys,” she groans, one of her hands coming to rest on her stomach, which had grown to double its size, and cradled the baby that was now demanding its entry into the world, and their lives.

All eyes immediately went to her, their mouth shut.

“Where… is… he?” She asks in short, punctuated puffs of breath, the pain refusing to relinquish its hold on her just yet.

“He’s…uhh, he’s on his way, apparently,” Connor says in a panic, his hand coming to scrub over his shaved head, pacing back and forth with a nervous laugh.

Michaela throws him a look, before approaching Laurel in her bed.

“Oliver’s got him and is on his way right now,” she assures her, her hand coming out, Laurel immediately taking her offer, and gripping her hand tightly.

“Owww,” Michaela stresses, and Asher quickly comes up behind her. 

“Here, use mine,” he says, squinting his eyes in an I got this manner, nearly shooing his girlfriend away.

Laurel can only manage an eye roll, as she tosses her head backwards in frustration. Her short hair having grown some, the blonde tips hitting her back, and she takes in the swishing of the strands hitting the strip of skin exposed in her hospital gown.

Wes and Laurel’s summer had been spent with internships and anticipatory nerves, piecing their lives back together from the trauma the best they could, refusing to scar their child with as little of their damage as possible.

Wes’ worry had grown as the due date loomed nearer, and though he tried to hide it, she could feel it, probably because it was the same worry that coursed through her own veins. 

Together; together. 

That’s what they’d kept telling each other. Assurances resting in promises that they knew they couldn’t keep, but were determined to try.

He’d been so prepared. Her bag, the baby’s bag, all packed and waiting by the door. A sure plan in place, for once aiming for stability, routine, preparation. No surprises.

Their baby had had other plans.

Laurel moans as another contraction hits her, Asher’s face scrunching into one of regret as she grips his hand tightly, squeezing his fingers together, and his mouth opens in fire, but nothing comes out, his feet hopping up and down with a clacking.

She can see it, her head twisting, furrowed brow, as she counts to herself, hunching over until she’s standing, turning around, still gripping his hand, as she bends to put her elbows on the bed, swaying back and forth as the pain laps all around her, demanding it be felt.

As the pain ceases, she gives out a loud sigh, but not louder than Asher’s, as he untangles his hand from her grip with a nervous smile, his eyes wide, as he shakes out his fingers.

“Wow,” he announces. “This is what child birth feels like,” he says with a bewildered face, causing Laurel to pick her head up to look right at him, her blue eyes swimming, and Michaela throwing her hands up in disbelief.

Connor comes up, patting him on the back.

“Shut up,” he advises, and Laurel begins pacing, both her hands supporting her lower back, as she paces back and forth.

She can hear the screech of his sneakers against the floor before she sees him, as he comes flying into the room, a flustered Oliver following closely behind.

“Laurel,” Wes says, out of breath, as if he’d run the whole way here, a panicked look in his eye, and his hands reaching out to rest on her shoulders.

Before she can get a word in, Asher approaches him.

“Good luck, man,” he says, a goofy smile playing on his lips, as he’s guided away by the group. The word idiot muttered by Connor as they leave.

A confused look tints Wes’ face, as he tilts his face, a crooked, dimpled grin displayed for her.

“You’re here,” she says, in a melodic sing-songy voice. 

Finally having been left alone, she walks backwards, perching on the edge of the bed, before leaning her head against his stomach.

“I thought we still had time,” he says, his voice suggests he’s teasing, but his fingers shake against her shoulders, suggesting otherwise.

She reaches up, resting her hands on his forearms, her head still buried in his shirt, her heavy presence stilling his nerves.

“Nope, this is it,” she says, looking up into his wide brown eyes. “You scared?” She asks, her grip getting tighter on him as she can feel another contraction coming.

“Terrified,” he says with a shaky laugh, his dimples refusing to leave her sight.

She just smiles, and he nods at her, knowing she feels the same. Somehow after everything that they’d gone through, this, this right here was the thing that scared them the most. The idea of obtaining something they’d wanted, had manifested as a fear that what was given, can just as easily be taken.

As Laurel braced herself for what was coming, he held on tightly to her, refusing to let go.

“Together,” she asks, her head dipping as the pain hits, and her grip becomes tighter on his arms.

Wes dips his head to her ear.

“Together.”


	24. Chapter 24

“¡Te odio!” She yells at the phone held out in front of her, as her hand comes to rest against the brick building she’s standing next to. The dress she has on underneath the denim jacket she adorns blows in the cool autumn wind, and her fingers attempt to grip the wall, pricking her skin, but giving her the cool relief against the heat of the argument.

“Excuse me,” she hears, a gentle hand coming to her shoulder, causing her to jolt away from the touch.

The guy raises his hands immediately in surrender, eyes wide, and mouth open at the ready for an apology.

She narrows her eyes, adjusting the bag on her shoulder, inching away from him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he spits out quickly, nervously. “I just…I heard you yelling,” he explains, which catches her attention, and she looks down, almost embarrassed until she remembers she’d done nothing wrong, her blue eyes briefly meeting his shellshocked brown.

The sincerity in which he gives off as an apology for doing nothing more than checking on her, makes her smile a bit, before steeling her expression.

“So…are you?” He asks, and she looks up at him confused. “Okay?” He repeats, and there’s that smile again, peeling back her anger and replacing it with something sweet, kind, warm.

His head cocks to the side, genuinely concerned with her wellbeing. His hand is now gripping the strap of his bag, and in her silence, he nervously laughs.

“You’re pretty quiet given how I found you,” he says, causing her brow to furrow again, and he seems to think he’s misstepped, because he backpedals again.

“I’m uhh, gonna be late for class,” she says with a tight lipped look, halfway between a smile, and an awkward grin, gesturing towards the building they were standing next to, her eyes getting wide, as she tries to side step him.

“Oh, right, yeah, me too…probably,” he stumbles, standing up straighter. “Professor Keating?”

She looks over at him, his face so hopeful, tinged with nerves, but ultimately infused with an optimism she couldn’t help but find a tad bit contagious.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and that seems to excite him.

“I wanted to get to class early, get a front row seat, you know…,” he rambles on, and she just nods along, trying to push the conversation she’d had before out of her head, needing to refocus on the task at hand.

“So who were you talking to…on the phone?” He asks, and she stops in her tracks, causing him to go further head, before turning around, not a hint of curiosity painted on his face, but that damn sincerity running through his eyes again.

“You don’t even know me,” she answers, crossing her arms, his kindness throwing her off.

He takes a step towards her, and this time she refuses to move.

“I’m trying to,” he says with a shrug, before turning to make his way to class, waiting for her to join him again.

With a roll of her eyes she hurries after him, catching up just as they reach the door of the classroom.

Walking side by side, she hopes he can’t feel how nervous she is, but he must sense the same nerves in her as himself, because he gives her a reassuring, dimpled smile as they make their way to the front of the class.

He moves to sit down in the front with two open seats, but she quickly shakes her head, grabbing his wrist to the desk next to her. Her grip is gentle, but he gives a look that says he wasn’t at all expecting that.

“Assigned seats,” she explains quietly to him, pointing to the chart

“Ahh, right,” he says, and she swears she can detect just the slightest bit of disappointment at not being able to sit together. She’d be lying if she wasn’t thinking the same thing.

Settling into her seat, she takes out a notebook, and a pen, resting her cheek against her fist, trying to fight the urge inside her to glance up at the guy whose name she didn’t even know.

Peeking through her dark lashes, she sees that he’s staring down at her, straightening in his seat with another grin as he catches her looking. But she quickly turns back down to her seat, refusing to peek again, a slight blush heating up her cheeks.

It’s not soon after that that Professor Keating makes her entrance, calling students out for answers to the reading assigned, and she hunches over her notebook, doodling in the margins, not likely that she’d be called on, and certain she wouldn’t be volunteering to do so like the girl who’d just stood out of turn.

“Wesley Gibbins,” she hears, as the guy from before stands, fumbling for his words.

She can feel the secondhand embarrassment overtaking her, as every eye in the classroom turns around to look at the guy who dare be unprepared in her class.

Tracking her movement up their row to where he stood, she swore she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, a loud thundering of nerves that threatened to overtake her.

The snickering from everyone as he admits to being on the waitlist has her closing her eyes, a sigh, as she sways in her seat.

_Leave him alone._

It’s the overwhelming thought she hears screaming in her head. She’s not sure where it’s coming from.

The silence stretches out from him, and even though she’s only known him a handful of minutes, she can picture his face, the tighter she closes her eyes, the clearer it becomes. Mouth open, searching words, big brown eyes begging for something, anything, a genuine quality that no one would dare refer to as a liar if they were really looking at him.

“To kill,” she says, opening her eyes, and dropping her hand on her notebook.

“Will the individual who just spoke please stand and repeat the answer?”

With a deep breath she rises, her pen and notebook still in hand, swaying her arms, trying to steel her nerves, and gain back some of the gumption she’d had on the phone earlier.

“The mens rea, also referred to as ‘intent,’ was to kill Mr. Kaufman,” she answers, tapping the back of her pen on the folded notebook, and threatening to drop in her loose grip.

“That’s right. Your name?”

“Laurel,” she says, hesitating a breath, before a glare is sent her way. “Castillo,” she finishes, swaying, closing her mouth, waiting for the criticism to come.

“Never take a learning opportunity away from another student, no matter how smart you need everyone to think you are,” Professor Keating directs at her as she passes by. Laurel remains standing, her mouth moving the slightest bit open. Shocked back into silence at her second outburst of the day.

The irony of her answer of what the intent was in the case, misconstrued as a selfish intent in the classroom, not getting her off to the best start to the school year. And she could only hope that it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.

She quirks her mouth in a look of defeat before sitting down, but she can feel a set of eyes boring into the back of her head. the rest of the class focusing on the professor.

Chancing a glance back, she sees him, Wesley Gibbins, staring right at her.

 _“Thank you.”_ He mouths from his seat, a slightly confused look on his face, but grateful nonetheless.

She shyly smiles and gives him a nod, before ducking her head back down, letting the veil of her dark hair cover her blushing cheeks.


	25. Chapter 25

“Can I get a large coffee with almond milk, thanks,” Laurel says to the barista in front of her, not making eye contact, digging through her purse to find her card to pay.

Her bracelets jingle against the watch that she has on, and her hair creates a dark veil shielding her face from the man who is openly staring at her from behind.

“I got it,” he says with a sigh, both annoyed but matched with a grin that looked a tad predatory.

“No, I’m fine,” she says holding her hand up to stop him, not wanting to feel indebted to some stranger whose look made her just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“I insist,” he declares, a smarmy quirk of his mouth, like he had already made his judgment about her, and was sure he could charm the pants off of her if given the chance. Laurel’s eyes narrow, not having the time or energy to deal with this.

“It’s already been taken care of,” the barista speaks, refusing to take the man’s money, an inquisitive, protective look on his face, that he covers with a big dimpled smile, like he’s just beat the man at his own game.

“Thanks,” Laurel says, glancing up at the barista for the first time during the exchange, his warm brown eyes meeting her’s with a soft twinkle, and an appreciative nod sent his way.

xxxx

The next day she finds herself wandering into the coffee house again, this time card in hand, as to not cause a scene like the day before.

She’s only a tad bit disappointed when she gets to the front of the line to find that there’s a woman taking her order this morning.

“Large coffee with almond milk, please,” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear, and handing over her card.

Her thumb finds her way to her mouth as she moves aside to wait for her order to be ready. Tucking her free arm around her midsection, she relishes in the colder weather that seemed to be moving its way in.

“I have a large coffee with almond milk,” she hears, moving to grab her drink, looking down at her feet, her boots scuffing against the floor, reaching for the cup, only for her fingertips to be met with a warm touch.

“Oh,” she says, quickly glancing up to be met with the same brown eyes that had saved her from yesterday.

“It’s you,” he says, a chipper voice, and those dimples peeking out with a smile as she can feel the heat from her cheeks make their way down her neck.

“Uhh, yeah,” she fumbles, grabbing the drink quickly, and turning with a quick thanks on her lips as she lets the wind in with the door flung open.

xxxx

It’s several weeks later that she dares venture into the coffee house again, continually kicking herself for being so quiet, so awkward when it came to…everything. She was smart, quick, idealistic, even. But years of being talked over and disregarded had led her to question her self-worth, and so she’d found herself avoiding the scene of the embarrassment, trying new places out around school. But eventually, she found herself back at the quiet coffee house where she could get her coffee, that came in a much larger cup than most places, and had corners for her to tuck in with her school books and study.

She’s buried in a psychology book, carefully writing down notes in blue ink, sinking further into her sweater as the door opened, sending in a gust of wind that struck her with an iciness that seemed to sink right into her bones.

With a shiver, she shakes her head involuntarily, reaching for her cup to warm herself up.

She hears his laugh before she sees him.

“You’re not from here, are you?” He asks, and she glances around at the empty tables, sure that no one is actually talking to her.

Looking up at the voice, there he is.

“Huh?” She asks, before mentally kicking herself. “Oh, no. Florida,” she says with a shy smile. And almost instantly regrets giving out the information, not willing to give too much of herself away.

“Wow, you’re in for a surprise up here. I don’t really like the snow either, hard for me to ride my bike, but autumn’s pretty great, all the colors and leaves, and —” he rambles on until he realizes that she’s just staring at him, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, and pen lightly tapping the notebook in front of her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says with a soft laugh.

“You’re not,” she admits, looking down at her notes, before giving a close-mouth smile, meeting his eyes.

“Good, I’m uhh, …glad?” He stumbles over his words, her direct response seemingly making him nervous. “I’m Wes, if you need anything,” he seems to recover before moving back behind the counter, not even waiting for her to give her name.

“Laurel,” she whispers to herself, before beginning her notes again, this time with a toothy smile.

xxxxx

“Stop being stupid,” she says with a laugh that has his whole face light up in the bask of her smile.

“I’m not,” he says, pointing to a place on the page of the book she has open. “I’m telling you, that’s the right answer.”

She narrows her eyes, her smile never leaving her mouth, as she looks down to where he’s pointing, only to find that he was indeed right.

“Ooooh, ohhh,” he chants, earning him a few stares from the other patrons trying to study.

“Okay, okay,” she says, pretending to cover his mouth with her hand, before grabbing the pen he’s holding. “Fine, you were right.”

A silence falls between them, but not uncomfortable, the two of them having spent the past couple of months slowly getting to know each other, Wes using the times when they were slow to sit at her table, help her study, and almost always they ended up joking with one another.

“Yo, could we get some service over here,” they hear ring out through the empty space. Wes reluctantly leaving her table, and quickly making his way over to the counter.

Laurel goes back to work, while eyeing the entitled asshole as Wes takes his order.

“You go to Brown?” The guys asks. Laurel sensing a snide remark no matter the response.

“No, I go to the community college,” he gestures with his head in the general direction of where he goes to school.

“Ahh, well that’s explains it,” he says, gathering his overcomplicated drink. “Might want to try working a little harder next time, you might make it off the waitlist.”

“Hey!” Laurel says from her seat, catching the attention of the guy, her stomach sinking at the attention.

The guy sticks his hands up in mock hurt.

“Sorry, wouldn’t want your girlfriend to come after me,” and he laughs his way out.

Wes defeatedly walks back to her table as he leaves, his head down, plopping down into the chair.

“You okay?” She asks, worry painted all over her face.

“He’s right,” Wes says, a crooked frown making its way across his lips, his elbows resting on the edge of the table, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes.

“No, he’s an idiot,” Laurel says matter of factly.

She reaches out, grabbing of his hands in her own, her cold fingers wrapping around his decidedly warmer ones, moving them down to rest on the table across her books.

“You’re smart, and sweet, and someday, you’re gonna get into law school, a good one. You’ll see,” she says with a confident grin.

“I don’t know,” he says, self-doubt clouding his eyes for the first time since she met him.

“See, now you’re just being stupid,” she teases, her other hand moving to mess with the watch he wore.

He laughs, meeting her eyes, and she swears her stomach does a flip into her throat.

“Hmm, and when we’re in law school, I’ll be the one giving you the answers,” leaning closer to him, this time his laugh hitting her in the face, mere inches away.

“I bet you will,” he whispers, his eyes flickering to her lips with his impossibly long lashes, before he leans in to meet her lips, as if sealing a promise for rest of their future.


	26. Chapter 26

The ding of her phone goes off, and her hand shoots out from underneath her pillow, waking Laurel from an exhausted sleep, her mind wandering, blindly reaching for the offending object before making contact.

Her eyes squint at the screen, signaling a text from Annalise.

A silent groan escapes her, as she fumbles to see. A flood of light from the lamp illuminates her surroundings, as well as shedding light on the night’s previous events that led her into bed at such an early hour.

Blue sheets cling to her form, as she turns, throwing out her arm, expecting to hit Wes’ sleeping chest, instead it flops to the mattress, and a confused look paints her face.

He left.

That’s the thought that comes screaming through her head, a text from Annalise only signaling her to something terrible having happened. Their conversation about speaking to the police before she’d kissed him, ringing in her ears.

“Wes?” She calls out, met with silence.

Quickly getting out of bed, the dried sweat creating an odd sensation, sending goosebumps to cover her exposed body, as she rummages to find a shirt to wear, throwing on the first thing she finds, an old cut up t-shirt.

Her bare feet hit the hardwood as she wanders through her apartment, hoping that he’d just gotten up to get a drink, and hadn’t left because he regretted what had happened or worse, a guilty conscious had led him to the police earlier than expected.

She’s relieved when she finds the colors of the tv bouncing on the parlor doors of her living room, the white walls displaying a modicum of hope that this night wasn’t completely unsalvageable.

“Wes, are you here?” She asks in a flurry, only to find him curled up on her floor, a sigh of relief escaping her, until his shell-shocked look meets her’s.

“Look,” he directs to the news, and she stands by him, the heat from his chest casting itself on her leg.

Her mouth moves open to speak, and then quickly shuts upon hearing that they were off the hook, that Wes wasn’t a suspect.

Crouching down by him, she plants herself next to him, her hand coming to balance on his arm, her fingertips tracing the lines of his veins, as they stare at the tv ahead.

“I…I can’t believe this,” he says with a shake of his head and eyes wide with disbelief.

Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, looking at him with gentle, relieved eyes, heavy with sleep, but eager to take in the sight before her.

She nods against him, her hair getting caught between their skin.

“This is good,” she says in a quiet whisper, glancing every so often at the tv, as if the news would suddenly report something different, taking this misdirect back.

“Hmm,” he hums, not even able to form actual words to what’s happening. He looks down at his hands, before landing on her, a warm, nervous smile staring back at her.

“You kissed me,” he says, cocking his head to see her reaction.

She ducks her head a bit, her lips coming to rest on his bicep, before moving to speak.

“I think we did a bit more than that,” she softly laughs.

She swears she can feel the heat of a blush coming off of him, a nervous energy, almost afraid that he’ll say something that convinces her to take back what had happened, like that was possible at this point.

“You know what I mean,” he says, as if still in disbelief about the whole thing, compounded with the weight that had just been taken off his shoulders involving the Mahoney case, it had been a night of revelations, and this one seemed to be taking longer for him to grasp than most.

“Yes, we did,” she humors him with a sly grin.

“Should we…?” He stumbles over his words, delicately moving his fingers to intwine with her own still resting on his arm. “I mean…there’s a discussion we could have…if you wanted…to…you know, have one,” he says, his words gentle, and smooth, despite the fumbling to get out his point.

She can’t help but continue grinning at him, even more convinced that she’d chosen wisely, complications be damned, because she was in love with the man sitting next to her.

“Because I mean—“ He starts again, only to be cut off, by Laurel’s lips connecting with his own, his hand moving to her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin, as she gets lost in the same heat from before.

Pulling away, her lips tuck in, a satisfied grin appearing on her face, his brown eyes flickering a spark.

“Wes,” she says, standing so he’s looking up at her, her impossibly bare legs leading to her tosseled hair, and bruised lips. “I plan on doing this with you for the foreseeable future,” she says, a pang in her chest at the sheepish look he’s throwing at her right now. “End of discussion,” she says, holding out her hand to help him up.

He reaches up, gripping her hand, and even as he stands, towering over her, causing her head to tilt back, she refuses to let go of his hand, as he moves in for another kiss, pausing just before his lips touch her’s. “End of discussion,” his words whisper across her lips, and tickle her into a smile, as she leads him back to her bedroom.


	27. Chapter 27

Laurel puts a big forkful of spaghetti into her mouth, her brow furrowing as the taste hits her tongue, her jaw clenching, as she moves to feign as if she likes it.

“It’s umm, it’s…good,” she says, reluctantly swallowing, her neck jutting her head out, a close-mouthed smile playing on her lips.

“It’s terrible,” Wes says, sitting on the couch next to her.

“It’s not great, no,” Laurel says with a sheepish laugh, a sympathetic look passing over her, as she uses her napkin to wipe at her mouth, her the muscles in her neck appearing as she makes a goofy face at him.

Wes puts his forehead into his hand, rubbing his temples.

“Hey, you tried,” Laurel says, scooting closer to him, the knee she had pulled up on the couch with her, dug into the corner, her growing stomach more visible in the shirt strained against her position. “So you can’t cook, there’s plenty of other things you’re good at,” she teases with a impish grin.

“No, sorry, I’m not…I’m not really upset about that,” he says looking up into her eyes. “I just have a lot on my mind,” he admits in a defeated voice, as he gets up, taking their plates, leaving her frustrated on the couch.

Bringing both legs to meet the floor, she perches on the edge of the couch.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, her hands busying with twirling a piece of her hair, her eyes never leaving the retreating figure in front of her. Her black shirt gathers around her stomach, and when he turns around, she knows that’s the first place he looks.

“Do you ever think this was a mistake?” He asks, refusing to meet her eyes.

“What part?” She bites back a little more acerbic than she intended, but his words take her by surprise, and she drops her hair, her hand coming to her stomach, as if shielding her baby anything remotely negative.

Her tone has him flinching, and his eyes flicker to her, realization hitting him.

“No, no, no,” he says, his quick steps, almost stumbling in the scuff of his sneakers against her floor, to get her shuffle her teary blue eyes to drown him in their depth. “That’s not…that is not what I meant,” he says, sitting down by her, grabbing her hand, and securing it in his lap, his large hand engulfing her tiny one in his own, refusing to let her believe anything that his true intentions.

Laurel’s free hand finds its way to her mouth, her teeth worrying her thumbnail.

“Law school, the whole thing. Like if I had just remained on that waitlist maybe none of this would’ve happened, we’d be safe,” he says, his words dripping in truth, not a thought that she hadn’t had. Although her own thoughts involved her having chosen a different school. His brown eyes look at her, asking for permission to admit that this isn’t exactly how they imagined their lives to turn out.

“You mean like us,” she ventures, not really sure what the whole thing really entails, but she’s pretty sure she’s included in that.

“Laurel,” he says, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. The nerves of this conversation have long since vacated his eyes, now only a desperate need to get his point across. “You…and our baby are the best thing to come out of this whole thing. The light in the dark.”

The grip she has on her stomach, moving up to rest on the bump. Her face scrunching up with a bit.

“Too cheesy?” He says, bringing his head to rest on her temple, a smile pressing into her cheek.

“Little bit,” she whispers. “But I get it. The past couple of years have been…”

“Crazy,” he finishes for her.

“Somehow…this,” she nods down to her stomach, her finger gesturing between the two of them. “…is the most normal thing to happen to us in a long time.”

“And it’s been kind of…” he pauses, tilting his head back and forth, his puppy dog eyes gaining back some of their shine, “calm, lately. And I just want it to stay that way.”

Laurel rolls her eyes.

“Well you’ve jinxed us now for sure,” she teases, bumping his shoulder.

A dimpled grin peeks out, his hand comes to rest on her stomach.

“I’ve just been stressed lately, worrying about everything, but Laurel, I…I don’t regret this…us,” he assures her, and she knows the sincerity attached to his words. His concern coming from a place of yearning for stability, safety. Afraid, like her, for the other shoe to drop, and shatter everything they were clinging so tightly to.

She doesn’t respond, just stares at him, her eyes tracing every line of him, from the indents of his dimples, to the slope of his nose, her eyes pleading for her understanding.

“Move in with me?” She asks.

“Umm, what?” He asks, his brow shooting up into his forehead. “Really? Even knowing I can’t cook?”

The question leaving her with a dimpled smile of her own, and then a laugh, her hands flying to her face, pulling back and taking her hair with it, tangling it in a mess.

She brings her face as close as she can to his own, her lips whispering against his own.

“I prefer takeout anyway,” she says.


	28. Chapter 28

_The bark of the tree dug into her back, her t-shirt thin despite the chill of the night, having run out of the house without a thought to what she was wearing._

_“What did you do to him?” She screamed, met with just a a shake of the head, a knowing look, shrouded in warnings that she knew existed. A defiant disobedience, one she knew he had no problem discarding those he didn’t find fitting enough._

_As soon as she’d gotten outside, her long, dark hair flew into her face, gritting her teeth through the cold, moving to where she wouldn’t sensor the lights to come on. Her dad installing all sorts of tricks to catching someone trying to get in, but sometimes, she was sure it was his way of making sure she didn’t get out._

_Her pajama pants tuck underneath her feet, too long for her, and shoes forgotten in her haste. The sticks and rocks pricked her feet, a hiss of pain hitting her as she made her way through the neighborhood out into the park._

_Her eyes wandering through the darkness to find what she’d been looking for. Staring up, she looked the sharp bend in the branch, the one indicating it was the right one. Seeing the angle above, the one that looked like a lightening, she walked up to the trunk, before sliding down to sit._

_Hoping that she had just made the threat up in her mind, that he was coming. He would be here._

_At their tree._

xxxxx

Her pen clicked against the lined notebook sitting on the blacktop table her head resting in her hand, a bored look etched onto her face, the same rich, spoiled kids she’d been with since grade school talking around her.

She only had one more year left with them before she headed to a college far, far away from her life here. One where she wasn’t used as a bargaining chip, a piece in her father’s game, one in which she wasn’t framed to the take the blame.

Pulling on her sleeve, she yanks it down to her palm, the fall air of Ohio working its powers to seep into her bones, quietly changing the colors of the leaves, before leaving the trees barren.

“Is this seat taken?” She hears someone ask in front of her, it’s sweet, different from those around her. But she doesn’t waste her time looking up. Instead continuing to trace the lines of the doodle she’d been scribbling as she waited for class.

“Not a chance,” she hears the response to his question, and she visibly cringes, tracing the numbers again, until she can get out of here.

She can almost feel the heat of the new guy’s embarrassment, so it surprises her when she sees the shadow of a figure above her, trying not to flinch, only settling when she hears the same question being repeated to her.

“Nope,” she says in a bored tone, only quickly glancing up to see a dimpled smile directed towards her, as he takes his seat.

She straightens up a little, tucking her hair behind her ear to get a better view, not hidden behind a veil of dark hair.

He makes a big deal of setting out his things, his tattered bag set on the table in front of them, and she finds herself glancing over at him. Her thumb coming to her mouth, as she takes him in.

He’s tall, like really tall, and he’s got the deepest indent of dimples that seem to make their appearance even when he’s not smiling, which she finds isn’t all that often, except when he seems to be concentrating on a task, then his brow furrows, and his eyes widen, dark brown, but soft somehow, comforting.

“I’m Wes, by the way,” he says with a grin, exposing those dimples again, his eyes bright and kind.

“Laurel,” she says, nervously. Although she’s not quite sure why. She usually keeps to herself, doesn’t associate with the other kids. Head down, nose in a book. Determined to get herself out of her situation. It was better not to have attachments. Her father would only look into anybody she was close with, and no good could come from that.

Before anything more can be said, class starts, an endless drone of the teacher going over the syllabus, her doodling continuing. The same numbers over and over again, now migrating to the syllabus itself.

The snort of laughter next to her catches her off-guard. And she sends what could only be described as a death glare at her partner, her blue eyes like ice cutting through his humor.

He immediately quiets when he sees the look she’s thrown at him, but it doesn’t wipe the smile off his face, as he points to the planner he has out, meticulously copying the assignments into it, at the top of each day, a countdown, and the same number she’d been tracing, his in red ink.

She can’t hide the smile, despite everything inside of her screaming to shut it down, as she meets another person who can’t wait to get out of here.

xxxxxx

“Hey, you ready to go?” Wes asks, as he comes up behind Laurel’s locker. She’s busy shoving books into the tight space, when his face appears behind her, resting on her shoulder.

He doesn’t miss the smile that comes from her as she looks down at the last book, before placing it on top of the others.

“Another exciting day of homework,” she relays, shutting the door, her back coming to rest against, the cold metal acting as ice, cooling off the heat that always seemed to come across her whenever he was around.

It had been a couple of months since Wes had sat down next to her that first day, and since then they’d been almost inseparable.

They’d found they had a lot in common, home situations that were less than ideal. Although details were never really discussed, they both knew that every night, they reluctantly separated, heading to a bed in a house they didn’t see as home.

Their feet crunch the leaves as they walk the short distance to the park by her neighborhood. His bike pushed along beside them, before leaning it up against a tree that they’d deemed their own.

Books scattered across the grass, the two of them sprawled out, taking a break, their heads leaning against each other as they glanced up at the sky, only partially hindered by the branches that took off in sharp angles in every which one, some parts more open than others due to the shedding of its leaves.

“It’s getting late,” he mumbles, his hand behind his head, his eyes flickering to her face every once in a while.

“Hmm,” she hums through the lollipop resting in her mouth, not wanting to break the silence of the moment. This was the only time she ever felt at peace. In the park, by their tree, Wes by her side.

She could see the way he looked at her, probably the same she found herself staring at him before she could catch herself. But she always did, catch herself. She couldn’t get too close.

Twisting around to where he was laying on his side, he stares down at her, and her lips quirk into a smile.

“You know,” he starts, and her eyes squint together at him, unsure of where he’s going to go with this. “I…kinda…umm, I’ve kinda had a crush on you since the first day of school.”

She can feel her eyes grow wide, yanking the lollipop out of her mouth to gape at him.

“What?” She asks, and she’s genuinely confused, turning over to her side as well.

“Well yeah,” he says nervously. “I thought you were way out of my league,” he admits self-deprecatingly. His hand coming out to play with a strand of her hair.

She gapes at him, before she can feel her bottom lip quiver, bringing it between her teeth.

“No,” she says, shaking her head, her eyes closing, willing herself not to cry. “This will make everything more complicated,” she admits.

She didn’t want to push him aways, if anything she wanted to pull him closer. Have his arms around her, the one place she ever felt safe. But she knew better. She knew this couldn’t end well. Not for her. And certainly not for him.

“Got it,” he says, as his face falls, and she knows that he thinks she doesn’t like him. Not like that. But he’s wrong.

“I uhh, I gotta go,” he says, standing up quickly.

“No, don’t go,” she pleads, wishing that she could explain why. “Please…”

He looks down at her, standing dangerously close to her, her head having to tilt back to see his eyes. The same brown eyes that she’d immediately noticed about him. The ones that had invited her to let him in, even a little. The same ones she couldn’t help but want to protect from whatever lies ahead of them if this went any farther.

He takes another step in, their chest just an inch apart. But he’s not moving, refusing to be the one to make that decision.

Her hands move to his chest, gripping the sides of his jacket, her blue eyes littered with tears, as she pulls him down, capturing his lips with hers.

For as warm as his eyes are, his lips are warmer still, his hands reaching up to tangle in her hair. She had never felt so wanted, so safe in her entire life. And she can feel herself sigh into him, a content whisper of approval, as a smile spreads against her, breaking the kiss.

His forehead rests against her, nearly bending in half to reach her, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I really do have to go,” he murmurs against her, and she nods, knowing that she should get going to. But now that she had Wes, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to let go of him.

“Meet me here tonight, at our tree,” he says, placing a soft kiss on her nose, which has her scrunching her face in a way that has him laughing.


	29. Chapter 29

“I have to get up,” Wes says with a laugh.

“No,” Laurel whines, pulling him closer around her, his arm wrapped over her chest, resting underneath her head.

He moves closer, pushing up against her back, resting his head in the juncture of her neck, placing a kiss on her pulse point that leaves a smile against his hand.

“I can’t be late…again,” he whispers against her, and her eyes grow wide, glancing back at him.

“Again? I believe it was you who made us late last time,” she warns, knowing full well that his suggestion of five more minutes the other day had turned into one angry professor, and two embarrassed students as they stumbled to their seats.

The sneers and quiet laughter hadn’t been missed as she took her seat. Her protruding stomach just now having decided to make its appearance known. No longer able to cover the evidence in big sweaters and coats, instead their secret taking a front row seat to the gossip mill that was their campus.

She’d shot narrowed, scrunched gazes back at them, an attitude that she’d fostered recently, uncaring of what people thought. But at the same time, the judgment was there. The idea that a law student couldn’t possibly also be a parent, although she assumed it wasn’t so much the parent part that had them rolling their eyes, so much as the mother part. More looks definitely sent her way, as opposed to the pitying glances that made their way to Wes.

It only made her more determined to prove them all wrong. The cast of speculation that she’d give up her career for family not something that she was ready to fall prey to just yet.

“Worth it,” he mutters into her, seemingly forgetting his earlier plea, instead content to snuggle further into her.

Her hand moves to mess with the watch he still has on, Laurel having fallen asleep immediately the night before, having forgotten to take it off. Instead, this morning, she finds her short nails trailing over the clasp, his scruff scratching on her neck as she continued mindlessly fumbling.

“Do you think we’re crazy?” She asks, not receiving a response, and she begins to think maybe he had gone back to sleep, until she feels his fingers move underneath her, begging for release.

She inches her head around to look at him, letting loose his hand, ceasing her fumbling, and landing on her tiny bump just below.

“Probably,” the same laugh from before peeking out again, this one more grounded in nerves than actual humor.

She nods, moving her hand to rest on top of his. 

“I think we passed crazy a long time ago,” and he’s not wrong given everything that’s happened.

“This might be the most normal thing we’ve done,” she states with her own laugh.

“Hmm,” he hums against her, his eyes fluttering closed, her’s doing the same upon hearing a deep sigh, knowing that he usually only did so right before he went to sleep.

“I thought you had to get up,” she whispers at him, and he groans against her.

“Changed my mind,” he mumbles.

“Ahhh,” she says, gently extracting herself from him to flip over so she’s facing him, the maneuver getting more and more difficult as the weeks pass by.

Her hands are tucked up between them, her hair sprawled out on the sheets, her pillow having been abandoned, and she scoots closer until her stomach prevents her from moving any closer. Her nose nearly touching his, her finger moving along the bridge of it, until his arm extends out, wrapping her up again.

He opens his eyes, his brown eyes meeting her smile.

“You know, you could get up too,” he teases, knowing full well she had to get ready too.

“I like it here,” she says with a shrug, as if it were no big deal. “I feel safe…here…with you,” she says, a shy smile playing on her lips, her brow hooding her eyes to a brilliant blue.

He brings his nose to meet her’s.

“Me too.”

“Five more minutes,” she says, snuggling closer to him, neither one of them ready to give up her safe haven just yet.


	30. Chapter 30

Laurel stumbles on the sidewalk, the heels of her boots feeling unstable as she takes a deep breath, regretting how much she had drank earlier that day. Her anger and frustration, and later regret about her fight with Wes having turned into her downing in a liquid distraction that was now threatening to come back up.

The cold, crisp night had a gust of wind blow against her, and she wraps her hands tighter around herself, her plaid shirt not offering much warmth. 

The words of earlier play over and over in her mind, the things she should’ve said instead of what she’d actually said. Her calls going unanswered, declined, sent straight to voicemail.

The only person whose feelings had been hurt were her own, and she’d been beating herself up over it all day, trying to drown the words, silence them, begging to take them back.

Reaching the iron gate, she hesitates, unsure of all places how she’d ended up here. She’d stepped out for some air, autopilot seemingly taking over and guiding her to where she couldn’t quite escape.

Resting her head against the back of her hand, the cold from the metal seeps in her hand, and she sighs, looking back, seeing a car parked on the street.

The vibration of her phone goes off in her back pocket. Her brow scrunches together in confusion, her lips coming to almost a pout. The picture she’d taken just yesterday pops up on her phone with the emblazoned three letters she’d been waiting for all day.

“Wes,” she answers, a bit of desperation mixed with a shaky breath that almost sounded slurred. Leaning against the gate, facing the street, she gives out a sigh.

“Laurel,” he gets out, and she hears rustling in the background, as he pauses. “Laurel…”

“Wes, where are you?” She asks, putting her finger in her ear to hear more clearly, despite the lack of noise coming from her end.

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry,” he says into the phone, and she can almost imagine his head tilted down, his lips touching the lip of the phone, his fingers curling across the screen.

“Me too,” she says with a content sigh, leaning her head back, running her free hand through her hair, that looked like a tussled mess from the day’s events. “Where are you, I can come meet you,” she asks again.

“Annalise’s,” he answers with in an almost sardonic laugh.

Looking back at the house, she gives a smile she knows he can’t see before turning back to the street.

“Me too,” she says in that tone that suggests they really weren’t much different from each other.

“I’ll come out—“ but he’s cut off, a muffled sound echoing back at her, and she whips back around.

“Wes!” She says into the phone, no response present, as she hangs up, quickly dialing another number.

“Something’s wrong, just get here,” she says into the phone, before shoving it in her pocket, the gate yanked open, as she moves into the house.

The door flies open, hitting the wall with a loud bang, as she rushes into the house, her eyes wild with panic, racing through the next door into the hallway, glancing upstairs.

She hears the glass breaking and a thump against the floor, instantly sobering her glazed gaze.

“No, no,” she repeats to herself this house having brought her nothing but twisted lies and spilled blood.

And then he’s there, turning the corner, stumbling right into her.

“Wes?” She asks, as he heavily leans on her. “What’s wrong?” She asks, the fear stricken in her voice, choking her as his eyes plead with her to help.

She can hear the sirens in the distance, her small frame unable to hold most of his weight, her legs shaking under the pressure.

“Laur—el,” he gets out, and as she looks up, she sees a ghost, a man from her past, bloodied and bruised. His eyes dark with mirth and a flicker of panic.

It doesn’t take long before the pieces of the puzzle fall together for her, and he’s off, running out the back door.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she whispers into Wes, his hands squeezing her arms, as she lowers them to the floor, her body crumpled like a rag doll, as he remains rigid clinging to her, his grip loosening by the second. Her hand supports his head, as he stares up at her, “You’re gonna be okay,” she just keeps repeating, until she hears the door, leaning forward to cover him, protectively so, as she glances back to see who it is.

Connor looks down at the two of them, shock and confusion weighing heavily on his eyes, as tears stream down her face.

The paramedics aren’t far behind, rushing in to assess the situation.

They crowd and attempt to push her back, she refuses, clinging to the hand that had had its grip on her.

They don’t argue when she says she’s going, as they wheel him out on a gurney, the crowd of people, those she’d come to know the most in the house that just wouldn’t quit torturing them all.

Annalise attempts to stop her, but she just shakes her head, her gaze refusing to leave Wes as they load him into the back of the ambulance.

“My dad did this,” she says, gritting her teeth, a lethal tone, unfeeling of any familial obligation, accuses. And with that, she climbs into the back of the ambulance, her fingers numb with the thought of how she could’ve lost the man whose hand she refused to let go of.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says again, the words more for her benefit than his this time. Her eyes fluttering shut, breaking contact with Wes for the first time since he’d stumbled into her arms. The night’s events playing over in her head, the tracks of her tears staining her cheeks, like a map the path she had taken since her first day here.

Leave him alone. The first thought she’d had that day in class, the same thought she couldn’t help but have even now. Standing up for him, quite literally tonight, weighted down with his own body to keep him standing.

She can feel a sinking guilt slowly shrouding her in its grasp, the realization of why he’d been in danger unclear, but the cause unmistakable.

Her eyes hesitantly open again, the rhythmic beeping of his heart echoing in the cab of the bus. The sound signaling her to breath, he was still there, still alive.

She’d protected him. Again.


	31. Chapter 31

Faint, indistinct sounds ring out around her, the fog remaining heavy, weighing her down. Her eyes struggle to open, fluttering back closed as soon as a peek of light shines through.

The pinch of her finger, the beeping, signifying the erratic beat of her heart, as the distress seems to make its way through her. She can feel the panic rising in her chest. The distinct smell of a hospital registering in her mind, but as she swims to the surface of consciousness, she seems to be dunked back under.

Squinting, her brow furrowing, her head sways to the side, landing on the pillow that settles her head. The movement making her feel as if she’s floating, before taking more effort than it should to bring her head back forward.

Prying open her eyes, they feel wet, as if tears had been involuntarily flowing down her cheeks. Her hair matted and sweaty, sticking to her forehead. She can make out figures in the room, but their faces are blurred to her. She wants to blink to clear her vision, but the thought of not being able to open them again crosses her mind.

_Blink._

There’s a figure standing over her, her eyes settling on the person, before focusing to reveal a face she recognizes.

“Hi,” she hears, sounding muffled to her ears, blinking back the tears that are threatening to cloud her vision.

“What…” she tries to speak, but her throat is dry, sore, and her hand comes to rest on her neck. The eyes staring down at her are clouded with worry, but lined with relief. It’s a mixture Laurel is used to seeing, and it alerts her to something having happened. “What…is it?” She gets out, her mind still fuzzy, trying to piece together a puzzle with several pieces missing.

Tilting her head to the side, clenching her eyes together tightly, trying to remember what happened. Her hand moves, fingertips sliding over a gown she doesn’t remember putting on. It’s only when she’s met with no obtrusion, that she notices what’s missing.

The bump, the one she’d cradled underneath her hand for the last several months, obstructing the view of her feet, and receiving more than a few judgmental stares, but whose powerful kicks were soothed in quiet whispers, wrapped in plaid, and met with soft promises of a future better than the fate they’d been given.

_Gone._

“What happened?” She asks, moving to sit upright, a wince of pain crossing her face, only slightly registering as alarming, as the reality began to settle around her.

“Laurel,” she feels a soothing hand coming to help her up, while also trying to get her to remain calm, but the fear has risen to that of panic.

“Where’s the baby?” She asks, glancing around the room. A flash of blood dotting her vision, as the previous day’s events come back to her. Her hand flies to her now empty stomach, as she boils over into hysteria.

“What happened?” She begs, looking up, pleading for answers. Only met with platitudes attempting to calm, instead igniting more questions.

“Where’s the baby?” She asks again, unsure why she’s not being told, reaching out to grip anything she can hold onto. Control seemingly slipping through her fingers, as she spirals.

“Shhh,” she hears momentarily, and she shakes her head, distinctly remembering a similar whisper against her temple, assuring her everything was going to be okay. She can hear the voice, feel her hand gripping their shirt as pain sears through her.

“Where’s my baby? Tell me where my baby is?” She nearly chokes out between sobs.

“Laurel, Laurel,” she hears, this time louder, cutting through her tears, and catching her attention. “She’s okay.”

Her lips quivers, her hand coming to wipe away at her face.

“What?” She asks, bending over, her body screaming at her to stop, but she finds the pain settles her nerves.

“She’s okay,” Michaela says with a sad smile, her hand continuing to rub Laurel’s shoulder. “Tiny thing, but stubborn…like someone else I know,” she finishes, leaning further over to meet Laurel’s panicked face that was slowly melting into one of relief.

“Can I see her?” Laurel asks just as the doctor walks in.

xxxxx

Her fingers bounce against the plastic of the armrest, the wheelchair squeaking as it makes it way to the NICU. The lights dimmer, and pods of some of the smallest babies she’s ever seen line the area, weaving her to a spot towards the back, one visitor already standing watch over her tiny baby girl.

“Wes,” she says, reaching out, and his dimpled grin meets her as he stretches out his hand to meet her own.

Her eyes begin to water again, as he leans over, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“I…I didn’t want to leave her,” he offers as an excuse, and she can’t help but smile back at him, never having doubted the type of dad he would be, solidified in that moment.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” she says, her eyes closed. She hears the click of the brake, stabilizing her to right next to her baby.

Leaning forward with a hiss, she looks into the plastic incubator, Wes smiling down at her as she sees her baby for the first time.

She’s tiny, Michaela wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t look fragile, she was strong. Only one tube ran from her nose, several wires attached to her chest lining her body, but a tiny pink hat sat on her head.

The silent sob that wracks her body as she stares in at her baby is met with Wes leaning down, his arm wrapped around her, as they stare transfixed at the little girl they’d created in front of them.

“There she is,” she whispers to herself, leaning her head against Wes’ shoulder, his lips meeting her forehead again, her eyes never leaving her baby girl.

_There she is._


	32. Chapter 32

Laurel blearily moves down the hall of her home, oversized t-shirt and boxers adorning her small frame, her hair hanging in her face. Her hand coming to swipe her wavy mess of dark locks back with a yawn.

Cracking the door open of the bedroom, she peeks her head in, seeing her baby girl snuggled up in bed, her favorite stuffed animal, a brown puppy that she dragged with her everywhere, locked underneath her arm.

Laurel gives a small smile, resting against the doorframe, soaking in the content look of her daughter, before stepping in and shutting the door.

Careful not to step on any toys, which she’d been known to do before, sending her flying in the air, a curse escaping her mouth, and a shy look of shock waking her sleeping baby.

Sitting on the side of her bed, one that was still relatively new, the toddler moving from a crib to that of an actual bed, if you can even call the small frame that. It was white, like most of her room, accented in soft pinks, and a floral print on her sheets giving an angelic feel to the toddler, whose eyelashes fluttered at the dip of her bed.

Laurel’s hand traces the flowers, the stems winding up over the girl, as if wrapping her in their warmth, rooting her in the clouds of white, protecting her from anything dark and threatening. And it’s not long before her hand makes it to her dark curls, haloed on the pillowcase.

“Aurora,” she leans down and whispers against her daughter’s cheek. “Mija, time to wake up” she says a little louder, moving a curl behind the girl’s ear, placing a kiss on her temple.

It takes her a moment, but her eyes slowly open, a confused look on her face, causing her dimples to appear, Laurel’s finger moving over the bookends of a smile only just appearing upon seeing who was waking her up.

“Do you remember what today is?” Laurel asks, and the girl shyly nods into her puppy.

“You do?” Laurel says with enthusiasm, her blue eyes going wide, her hand going over her mouth. “What is it?”

A toothy smile makes its way across the girl’s face, as she holds her dog out, yanking it back to her face to almost hide behind it.

“Daddy’s day,” Aurora whispers, as if afraid that he was going to hear her from down the hall.

“That’s right. Do you still have his card?” She asks, as the girl sits up, moving into Laurel’s side, snuggling her head against her, her tiny arm wrapping around her midsection. Laurel moving to bury her face in the girl’s hair. A quiet nod felt against her, she smiles, moving to get up, extending her hand for Aurora to grab.

Carefully standing up, balancing on the mattress, her little nightgown hanging at her knees, puppy dangling by her side, she reaches out, biting her bottom lip, before taking a big jump, suspended in the air, still grasping her mom’s hand, before nearly floating to the hardwood with a thud, most of her weight supported by Laurel’s grip.

Quickly grabbing her creation, they make their way back to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Cracking the door open the same way she’d done before, this time a toddler gripping her leg like she was her lifeline.

Their footsteps having woken the remaining occupant of the bed, as he twisted on his stomach to see what was going on. Laurel’s leg quickly abandoned upon seeing him peek out from the covers, the girl’s little feet moving quickly, climbing into the bed and immediately worming her way under his arm until their noses were touching.

Laurel can’t hear exactly what they’re saying to each other, soft whispers shared between the two, but the matching pair of dimples is enough to make her melt. Dipping her head, she leans against the wall, arms crossed as she watches them interact.

When they’d found out she was pregnant, fear was the first reaction, something that had been shrugged off as not likely had suddenly turned into something very real, and the lives they led weren’t exactly conducive for a baby.

Wes having taken instantly to the baby girl before she was even born, but only solidified his place by her side when he’d literally refused to leave his baby girl when she was born months early.

The light at the end of the tunnel a small girl who had them both wrapped around her tiny fingers, still to this day.

Aurora was a shy girl, usually hiding behind her legs around new people or burying her head in the crook of their necks when someone brought attention upon her. Seemingly only climbing out of her shell when it was just them around. Pleas for story time, Wes taking on different accents for characters that had her whole body giggling, bouncing her curls around under dark lashes. Those dimples able to light up an entire room like bursts of sunshine.

Or the impish grin she’d get when Wes caught her jumping on her bed, quickly sitting like she was innocent. That smile able to worm her way out of anything more than a warning to be careful. Twisting and flipping all over her dad as he gripped her hands.

They were enamored with each other, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to come home from work to see some sort of flower crown on his head, a willing participant to his Roo’s suggestions, often ending with the three of them passed out on the couch on any given night.

“Happy Daddy Day,” she hears, shaking her from her reverie in time to see Aurora’s handmade card being passed to him.

“Did you make this?” He asks, sitting up to read the card, as she sits crosslegged next to him, puppy settled on her lap.

She nods, bringing her wrist to hide her mouth.

Wes begins reading the words Laurel had written above the picture Aurora had drawn. Circles with sticks coming out, acting as legs, drawn in rainbow colors.

“Is that us?” He points, Laurel moving to sit behind Aurora on the bed so she can see, wrapping her arms around her girl.

“Tell him who everyone is,” Laurel whispers into her ear.

“Mama,” she points to the blue circle. “Daddy,” she says to the taller circle next to her.

“And who’s this? Is this you, Roo?” He asks of the little green circle.

She nods again.

“And who’s that?” Laurel says, biting her lip at the scribbles in the corner.

“Asha dancing,” she explains, causing Wes to fight back a laugh.

“Uncle Asher does dance funny, doesn’t he?” Wes says looking back at Laurel, who’s biting her own lip.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Wes says, making a show of giving her a kiss on the cheek, the little girl wrapping her arms around his neck, rubbing her nose against his in an eskimo kiss.

Neither Wes nor Laurel having enjoyed a Father’s Day in their childhood, the void of family often weighing heavily on them both, now a day often looked forward to by them all.

Leaning over, he places a kiss on Laurel’s cheek as well.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes lowered, and dimples out.

And she’s not sure when it happened or how, but after everything, the mundane moments have somehow become the memories she wants to remember the most. Moments like this one.

“Happy Father’s Day, Wes.”


	33. Chapter 33

“What…are…you…smiling…about?” Laurel asks from the bathroom, her hand moving the toothbrush around, her words garbled as she attempts to keep the toothpaste from dripping down her face. Her boyfriend sitting on the bed, a goofy grin on his face.

Spitting into the sink, she pops her toothbrush back into the cup next to his, where it had found its home during the holidays, and had chosen to stay put since then.

“You know we just got fired, right?” She says, eyes squinting, as she plops onto the bed next to him, moving the plaid shirt he’d worn earlier to the side, their backs resting against the headboard. Her face contorting into confusion at his incessant grin.

“Yeah, you’re showing,” he gestures with his chin, and she thinks he’s motioning towards the letter of recommendation she’d tossed onto the bed upon reading it as they came up the stairs.

“You can read it if you want, I don’t really care,” she says, attempting to hand it over, uninterested in the kind things that had been written about her, the biggest rejection having come from the blatant disregard to the news that they’d shared with the table that night. It was almost as if it had fallen on deaf ears to the woman who wanted to claim Wes as her own.

“No,” he says with a laugh, his dimples getting deeper at the pull of his lips. “You’re showing,” he points at her stomach.

She slaps his finger away playfully.

“I am not,” she says, quickly glancing down at her stomach to make sure that he wasn’t right. Pulling up her shirt, her once flat stomach did seem to resemble that of a smallish bump protruding from her pants.

“It’s a food baby,” she says, her hands freezing on the shirt bunched up.

“We didn’t eat, remember,” he says, his stomach growling as if adding to his statement.

At the reminder, she looks down, her eyes seeing for the first time where their child rested beneath. A shot of fear racing through her at the physical evidence of the choice that they had made.

Her hands moving to frame the tiny bump, her pinky finger gently stroking over her skin, the image of a baby that looked like a mixture of the two of them playing in her head.

“Told you,” he says, his smile having never left, as he stared at her movements, her head lifting to meet his brown eyes.

“Yeah,” she agrees in almost a whisper, not even arguing that he’d been right, her smile meeting his own.

Only torn away by the vibration of her phone sitting between them.

“It’s your dad,” Wes says, handing the phone to her.

She gives a deep sigh, having evaded most of his questions earlier. Her lies likely to come back to bite her in the ass, but she hadn’t been quite ready to expose Wes and her personal life to the man that would surely find a way to ruin everything.

Wes leans over to see the picture he’d sent, Laurel’s face steeling into one of irritation.

“Good thing I was wearing layers,” she says, referencing the picture, as she sends a response that doesn’t even come close to expressing her true thoughts.

“You know, you could’ve told him the truth,” Wes suggests, his hand coming to rest on her still exposed stomach, his skin warm, yet still managing to send a trail of goosebumps over her skin at his touch.

She waits until he’s looking at her, and not at her stomach.

“It’s better this way,” she says, conviction in her tone, not willing to give an inch to her father.

“I know, but he’s the only family the baby will have—“ Wes tries, but is quickly cut off.

“No, he’s not a good person. I don’t want him anywhere near us,” and he nods, having heard this all before, and choosing to believe that her reasons were likely justified if she felt that strongly about keeping him away.

“Okay,” Wes says, moving to place a kiss against her lips, her hand finding its way to the side of his face before he pulls away.

“We’re the only family the baby needs,” she says, and that gets him smiling again, glancing down at where his hand is still planted firmly against her stomach.

No need to look to the heavens for answers, everything they needed resting inside her.


End file.
